Pistol Whipped
by PCP
Summary: Left to survive in the worst conditions possible, a boy carves his future out of the ashes, and has one grandiose plan to change the world. DM/HP. AU. Slash. Complete.
1. Disclaimer and Story Notes

**Disclaimer and Story Notes**

Title: Pistol Whipped

Author: paddycakepadfoot

Summary: Street!Harry. Crime consortiums, alternate identities, guns, and a grandiose plan to take over the world. AU. Slash. Eventual DM/HP.

Genre: Everything, Jesus.

**Warnings**: Tolerable (I hope) OC's, attempted rape, gore, murder, violence, dub-con, underage consensual sex (when Harry is 13 and then 16), Crime, drug use, drug distribution, immoral!Harry, slut/bottom!Harry, multiple pairings, Slash, Het (mentions and one instance), lots o' OMC/Harry, eventual DM/HP (main pairing), partial LV/HP, one-sided SS/HP, AU/AR with elements of all seven books (DH included IS included), UST, anal, mention of kinks, genocide, lots of characters, abnormal jumps, breaks, and formatting of story, prostitution, unrealistic views of crime syndicates, unrealistic views of Federal Agents, crude and cruel American/British Humor, **and the biggest warning here: racist themes including highly offensive and derogatory terms. There is racism.** Even though this story pretty much revolves around drugs and weapons dealing, there is a hell of a lot of racism. So, either handle your shit and get over your politically correct bull, or exit the premises of this window. *click click*

CC and Flames: I accept CC, it is valuable and golden in my eyes. Flames, however, are a pointless endeavor, and will be mocked profusely. Don't be a fool, stay cool.

Feedback: Email or site review. I respond to each individually.

Story Notes: Pistol Whipped is entirely finished, and I have now begun the sequel. I sort of started this project to see if I could set a goal for myself and follow through. Needless to say-I did rather well. It took less than five months to finish, and after well over six-hundred pages and forty chapters later, I find myself glowingly accomplished. Despite the fact that this is done, I am always appreciative of tips and corrections. I've been working on a lot of original fiction lately, and this is my break from the complexities of my writings. Before you start to read, please heed the warnings and take a moment to look through the hypothetical Q&A I've written up. Hopefully, this will stop people from asking me rather annoying (to me at least) questions.

Q: _You use a lot of OC's in this story. Why don't you just write an original one?_

A: Because I'm already doing so, and if you read past the first and second chapter, you'll find the Harry Potter world is, in fact, very significant to the world I've created. They are intricately twined together.

Q: _Will this include DH?_

A: Yes, the premise of the Hallows and the Horcruxes are in the story. They are a small part of it, though.

Q: _When do you update?_

A: Every week. Friday. No excuses.

Q: _Anything I absolutely have to know before reading?_

A: This is slash. All of my stories are slash. This features OMC/Harry quite a few times, and much of the plot surrounds OC's. Hopefully, it won't be too much of a problem for people. I think they're tolerable, and I hate Mary-sues and Gary-stues. Yuck.

Q: _Do you plan on finishing your other stories?_

A: I am deleting a few. I'm working on a sort of sequel one-shot…thing, for The Loft. Then I will be posting a sequel to The Rock Show. Yeah, for fans!

Q: _This doesn't read like a parody, is it one?_

A: Yep, but subtle.

Q: _Do you respond to every review?_

A: Every. Single. One. I love you guys. I love feedback, and I'm lonely. JK.

**Complaints I can see coming up**:

C: _Don't like Harry under a false identity!_

R: Me neither, at least not usually, but I like him in this.

C: _Too many OC's!_

R: Not enough! I do OC's rather well.

C: _Update faster!_

R: No.

C: _It's Pistol-Whipped, not Pistol Whipped. You forgot the dash._

R: I forsake the dash. The dash I bash. I will not put a dash, I won't. I do not like the dash, I don't.

C: _Slash? Ew!_

R: FAIL.

More Information: Fun and fantastic stuff is on my new WP. Character charts to lessen the confusion, play lists and soundtracks, and other miscellaneous crap can be found there. This is also posted on AFF , where you can find extended lemon scenes. It's also posted on Hpfandom, to find links to these places, go to my profile and check my WP.

Inspired by: Panic Switch by the Silverson Pickups, crime dramas, real life, Cops, and Quentin Tarantino.

-Shameless Plug-

If you enjoy Pistol Whipped, you might like: _The Denarian Trilogy_ by Shezza88, and _Bloody Skies_ by Toki Mirage. Brilliant authors!

To Readers: Thank you for reading this silly, ostentatious A/N, and thanks in advance for reading the story. I quite like reviews, helps me know someone's out there, so please take the time to leave me a comment. If you would like to contact me about anything, my email is available on my profile. This story is meant to be a parody. Do not take this seriously, do not go bat shit crazy over anything offensive, because it is absolutely intolerable considering my many, many warnings. Not only am I mocking the street!Harry theme, but television and film and their exaggerations of the mobster genre. Somewhere while I was writing this, it turned into a bit of a soap opera, and honestly, who takes soap operas seriously besides your crazy Aunt Joann? Just enjoy. Thanks again, loves.

Thank You: To Shannon (because your parents are the coolest detectives I've ever met, and for being awesome!), Amazonia (for letting me bounce ideas off of you, and for looking this over), and to cigarettes, coffee, and Led Zeppelin. Led Zeppelin more than everything else. Sorry, guys. _Enjoy_, and please review!

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. All characters belong to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury, and Scholastic, respectively. All original characters are products of the author, as is the premise and plot. Copyright infringement is not intended and I make no money from posting this story.


	2. Chapter One

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. All characters belong to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury, and Scholastic, respectively. All original characters are products of the author, as is the premise and plot. Copyright infringement is not intended and I make no money from the posting of this story.

A/n: I took out the story note chapter, because I'm pretty sure you all get the gist of this by now, and that stupid chapter one is chapter two thing was really getting me T.O.'d. Even so, if you would like to read the disclaimer/notes again, it's on my WP and you can get to that link from my profile. Just a reminder: **I update every friday, and this is slash**. Carry on!

Warnings for this chapter: Violence, OC's, slash, immorality, and multiple pairings.

* * *

Pistol Whipped

Chapter One

He stood outside of the diner, watching as a group of children made their way up the steps cautiously. He wondered if they were wary simply because the stairs were still wet from the rain, or if it had more to do with his appearance that usually garnered a wide berth. The latter seemed slightly more plausible, given their sideways glances and fierce whispering. He threw down his cigarette rather forcefully and made his way inside, deciding at the last minute to hold the door open for the kids. A young blonde girl, who looked older than her siblings (or so he assumed they were) seemed so surprised by his chivalrous action that she momentarily froze.

"_Come on_, Cassie," a little boy behind her said, and she started. Allowing the children through the door first, she moved smoothly toward the entrance with her chin turned up, as if to say, _I'm rather sure of myself, which means you should be sure I'll kick your ass if you mess with me. _

"Thanks," she murmured, and he suddenly felt rather vindictive, so he smirked impolitely until she scampered inside.

The door closed behind him as he saw McKay glare in his direction. He strolled over to the booth and squeezed in uncomfortably. "If I'd known you were in here I wouldn't have lagged outside, McKay," he smiled by way of apology.

"Eh," McKay grunted. "Too busy gawking at underage women, Sparky."

He looked back at the girl, who was ordering for her obnoxious family, and their eyes met briefly before she looked away, embarrassed. "Don't swing that way, McKay," he lit up a cigarette. "If I did you and Frankie would be astronomically fucked."

"I've always wanted to be astronomically fucked," McKay said wryly. "And sure, Frank and I depend on your tight ass and nothing else."

"You know you do," he grinned, facing the man before fully. "Attracting both sexes appeals to gathering assets. Ergo, I scrounge the best assets."

"Don't get cocky, kid," McKay growled, and then said, a bit sincerely, "The world will eat you alive."

Too true a statement for a place like New York. Arrogance ran unmitigated amok, but confidence, well, it was too pure and prude to not be destroyed. New York took starry-eyed innocence and made it limestone cold, resulting in the ultimate degradation: becoming a thrice-damned New Yorker. McKay was puzzled at his ability to retain such indecent individuality. A criminal was a criminal, after all. After a year in New York, however, he hadn't lost his accent, hadn't been reduced to a prostitute or a hobo, and certainly wasn't a corporate dishwasher. Henry Brooks, or Sparky as McKay called him, was the epitome of a young up-start. Sixteen, though he didn't look it, his hands wet with anything illegal, and his head miraculously escaping the threat of a truly dangerous lifestyle. McKay often thought him admirable, and the kid knew it, and they worked together harmoniously for the big boss-man-Frank McAllister.

Henry himself never regretted leaving London, the city was disgusting in a subtle way, whereas New York kept no secrets about its deplorable state. It wasn't that he didn't have a life back in England, he did, in fact the weapons business had been booming over there. Before long, however, his name had been sullied and the memories had overwhelmed him. England was home, always, but a bittersweet one, and he had moved to New York in search of a new life, a new reputation, and had found it without losing too much of himself in the process.

McKay was impressed with that, and Henry quite liked McKay for being impressed.

"Scott Gordon says that Benny owes him twenty G's, and won't let that shit go. I'm going to need you to sort him out."

Henry grimaced. "What happened to your last slave?"

McKay smirked, "Tarred and feathered, you English fairy."

Laughing, Henry stubbed out his cigarette and watched while the waitress filled up their coffee cups. He nodded his thanks as she blushed and walked away.

"Tch. What you do to women is morally impermissible, kid."

"You don't have any morals," he scoffed, and then felt he should protest. "Scott's business doesn't have much to do with me, McKay."

"It sure _fucking_ does," his fist pounded on the table. "You told Benny that Scott would back off, and that Benny was fucking good for it! Benny and money, that spells _no_ _good_."

"You know I didn't mean it," Henry tried innocently. "All right, all right," he relented. "So I might have caused a little trouble. But nobody fancies those two in the business. They're entirely too volatile."

"They're both barking up the wrong tree, you know that, Sparky. Benny needed that money to pay off Oscar. If Oscar finds out Benny's in the hole and Scott's making a rumpus, there'll be hell to pay."

"You're right," he admitted. "They talk too much. It's just too bad Oscar already knows. _He_ told _me_ to mix the scouse."

"You goddamn mob people and your tricks!" McKay complained, and then sighed, deflating. "He's already asked you to take care of it, yeah?"

"He sure has!" Henry said happily.

"That's wonderful pillow talk, Sparky," McKay teased. "Murder and mayhem post-coital."

"The only way to go," and he grinned. "Oh! I've got the book you wanted. Second Edition."

McKay gathered an indignant look about him. "I wanted first, you bastard!"

With much prostrating, Henry got up and bowed, "I beg ye pardon me lord."

"You are such a fag," McKay said, askance. "Get the fuck out of here."

Henry laughed merrily and made his way out of the diner, not having to turn back to know that McKay would be sipping his coffee and reading nonchalantly in that disgruntled way that was purely McKay. He spotted the girl from earlier trying in vain to get her little brother to eat, and gave her a wolfish grin. Her blush made him cackle sinisterly as he walked out into the sunlight and onto the busy street.

OoOoO

From the white truck outside of Alice's Restaurant, FBI agent Marshall Donnelly watched the lanky teenager make his way down the road. He scowled at the screen, where John McKay remained at his lonesome booth reading his book.

"That's Henry Brooks," he said absently to the new recruit, FBI agent Alicia Monroe.

"He's small time fish. Who we want is John McKay," and he zoomed in on the feed he had in the diner. "Second only to Franklin McAllister, who runs the central supplying cartel in Manhattan. McKay is an old sport in the game, he's been with McAllister from the beginning, just about. A mercenary, so he's got property and second-degree drug charges." Donnelly sighed. "And _of course_, we've got no solid proof to prosecute him."

Agent Monroe's eye was on the teen, however, who was quickly moving out of sight down the street. "A little young for this type of crime, don't you think?" she murmured.

Donnelly smirked and motioned for Marks, their tech, to bring up the boy's file.

"Henry Christopher Brooks," Marks read. "Immigrated to New York roughly a year ago from England. Five-Feet, eight inches, a hundred and twenty pounds. Last booked in Queens for disturbing the peace. Before that he did time at a correctional facility in London for six months for breaking and entering. Has ties to McAllister and Van Rued crime syndicates, and is suspected of first degree murder on at least twenty counts. Identification says he's sixteen. England has him on their most wanted for his involvement in the Evenward Massacre."

The blank look on his new partners face made him sigh. "They didn't brief you, or what? At the very least, tell me you watch the news."

She looked a little sheepish, and he wondered at the people the bureau were enlisting these days. "All right," Donnelly resigned himself. "Five years ago the Evenward family made a deal with Patrick Tyler, a Scottish boss who dabbled in Heroin dealing. Hence, the nickname "Poppy King Tyler". Isaac Evenward double-crossed Tyler, thought Tyler wouldn't find out about it, and two days later the entire manor, guards and henchmen alike, completely disappeared in a window of about a two hours. No one knows how Tyler did it, where he hid the bodies, or _how_ he managed a complete and final end to the Evenward dominion."

He glanced at Monroe to make sure she was following.

"Denny Brooks, a behind the scenes hit-man for Tyler, adopted a son in 89', _the_ one and only Henry Christopher Brooks. There's not a file on the kid before then, no real name, no birth certificate…nothing. The kid was a regular old carbon copy of his dad, followed him everywhere, even on hits."

"It's no wonder he turned out to be such a crazy fuck, huh?" Marks chortled.

"_Why_ this is _so_ interesting," he continued with smirk. "Is because there was only one set of non-Evenward prints on scene after the massacre. Identified as Henry Brooks."

"What?" Monroe said, a bit loudly. "You're telling me that a little boy is responsible for the murder of fifty-three men?"

Donnelly said knowingly, "Denny Brooks worked for Patrick Tyler at the time, so it's obvious why he would be sent to take care of the Evenward family. What's strange is the fact that he took his eleven-year-old son with him, no one else, and that Henry's prints were the only ones found."

"I can't believe that," Monroe said with a strained chuckle, shaking her head.

"Neither could England's judicial system, didn't even question the kid, but you better believe it. Brooks may be young, but he's got his father's talent for killing. The dad, by the way, is incarcerated back in England, caught around the same time that Patrick Tyler disappeared. Shortly after all that, Henry Christopher Brooks is on American soil. How he got involved with Franklin McAllister is a mystery, he's wanted for questioning but that's about it. No proof, no prosecution, and with the Evenward Massacre a closed case, there's not much we can do."

Marks closed the file as Donnelly sighed. "I've been after McAllister for five years, but Brooks's file is too interesting to not want to touch. He works mostly as an envoy between McAllister and Van Rued, who, a fun fact," and he waved a finger around, "loves that kid more than anything."

Laughing, Monroe sat on the back of a chair. "Sounds like he's got a line ten crime bosses deep wanting to adopt him. Talk about dysfunctional."

Donnelly handed her a cup of coffee. "Adopt? No, Van Rued makes no secret of his taste in men."

She blanched, looking at the mug shot of Brooks, and despite his youth, she could not help but think him ridiculously good-looking. "How _old_ is Van Rued?" she felt compelled to ask.

Marks turned about in his chair, his cheeks dimpling in laughter. "Could be the guy's father. Should we add statutory rape to his other charges?"

Agent Donnelly laughed. "I doubt one of the biggest weapons dealers in the country cares about underage sex."

"I'd tap that," Marks nodded to himself, immersed in his computer screen. He turned back around when their silence became overwhelming. "What? I'm as straight as an arrow but I'll be the first to admit that Brooks is one hot piece of…."

"Okay!" Donnelly interrupted loudly. "Any questions, Monroe?"

She shook her head as Marks announced, "McKay's moving," and they watched as the man left money on the table and got up from the booth.

"He's got another goddamn book," he zoomed in. "Looks like Dickens again."

"_David Copperfield_," Monroe noticed, and gasped. "Ooh! Looks like a second edition!"

Donnelly and Marks turned to stare at her, as she brushed some of her brown curls back and shrugged. "I'm an antique book lover."

Marks jutted his thumb and forefinger to her and then the screen in one fluid movement. "That's makes two of you."

OoOoO

Oscar stared as he slipped into his jeans , barely restraining himself from reaching out to touch. Henry sat back down on the side of the bed to put his shoes on, and smiled as Oscar's hands gave up their silent battle and trailed down his naked back.

"Hässliche Narben," he whispered, and Henry turned a bit.

Oscar always took an odd interest in his scars, the starburst holes that pebbled his back atrociously, and the numerous burns, nicks, and lines on his arms and shoulders. Henry would have thought it was compassion in the man's eyes if he didn't know any better. The hatred for the anonymous persons that had marred him scared Henry quite a bit, and he always turned around to kiss Oscar to deter him.

"Too beautiful," the man said wistfully, running a hand down his cheek.

Henry smiled, slapping Oscar's face lightly. "Too old."

Predictably, Oscar cursed at him in German, and then said, "I am thirty-five, Heinrich," he started.

"And old enough to be my father," Henry finished, laughing as he got up. "What do American's call that? Cradle robbing?"

Oscar shook his head, amused, a pleasant crinkle at the corner of his eyes, and Henry leaned down to kiss him again.

"Why don't you stay?" Oscar said softly, as he did every night. "Jana will not be back tonight."

Henry raised an eyebrow at him as he wrestled to put on his coat. "The answer will always be no, O," he tried to be gentle and looked away, quietly sorry.

Silently, Oscar lit a cigarette, his eyes on the bed as Henry belted his jeans. Feeling a bit put-out, Henry knelt down and drew him into a kiss. "You know I would, love. You know I would."

"Frank doesn't need you," said Oscar, a lie even to himself.

"Frank doesn't have me," said Henry, a lie to everyone. He drew back and stood up.

"Benny should be taken care of tonight, O."

Oscar murmured something in German, sounding relieved. "Thank the Gods. That boy and what is his name? The Scotsman…"

"Scott," Henry informed him, amused. "With not an ounce of Scottish blood in him."

"Bah," he waved a hand. "Those two boys, not good for business."

"Frank wants them gone as well," he affirmed and stared off a bit. "But he's wondering at your men handling the Cordero issue."

Oscar scoffed. "Cordero has a deal or two left in him, Heinrich, and Frank is doing the same with Torres before they are indisposed. You tell McAllister that we shall take care of him in due time."

Henry nodded as the man shifted on the bed until he was in sitting position. "I hate this business talk between you and I," he grumbled.

Grinning, Henry straddled him and leaned in close, "Then you shouldn't have taken me to bed."

"You are at fault," Oscar quipped, pecking him on the cheek. "Too beautiful to be a henchman. You will give up the life so I can take care of you, Heinrich."

Groaning, Henry rolled off of him and put a hand over his eyes. "O, you are ridiculously persistent."

"What?" he retorted defensively. "I tell you this all the time. I tell you this because I mean it, or do you doubt me?"

Henry's eyes softened. "I don't doubt you," and he laid a hand on Oscar's forehead. "I don't doubt you at all, O."

Without saying goodbye, Henry made his way out of the lavish bedroom and into the hall. He lit a cigarette as he passed the guards, who nodded in greeting. Oscar was getting a bit too clingy, and Henry scolded himself for not predicting the happenstance sooner. A year and a half in the man's bed would result in two possible outcomes… so Henry speculated. One, he would be removed from the relationship by outside forces (meaning Frank and his inevitable ire) consequently involving Oscar's death because the man never played fair when it came to Henry, or two, Henry would remove himself when post-coital talk about being a kept boy got too tiresome. Neither options appealed to him, though at least the latter permitted a bit of control on his part.

Henry, however, was not a kept boy, despite his involvement in certain syndicates, who expected loyalty and employment for as long _they_ desired. Despite his attractiveness and the potential of being a very _comfortable_ kept boy (platonically and romantically), Henry was a veteran in independence. He had, after all, been on his own for a very long time, and since then had trusted barely a hand-full of people. Henry liked being on his own, liked being in control, and even if he thought he might, _just might_, love Oscar half as much as Oscar loved him, Henry would never be kept. There was too much fight left in him to allow it.

OoOoO

Frank's glare when he walked into the house could have melted glass. Henry took his coat off and hung it on the wall next to the large oak doors, his eyes fixed on the top of the staircase challengingly. The McAllister house was really more of a mansion, with its two stories and fifteen rooms. On the coast of Albany, New York, Frank's main headquarters stretched far and wide, and was a common attraction for tourists and architectural enthusiasts who would never know who owned such a beautiful house, or how they had so much money. When Henry had first stepped into the mansion, he'd laughed at the extravagance to cover up any awe he might have felt. Frank liked awe, practically got off on it, and Henry knew how all crime bosses worked, and giving them satisfaction usually meant you still owed them something (he never said they were logical).

The marble staircase made Frank McAllister look awfully imposing, and at his 6'1, to Henry, the man didn't need a goddamn twenty-thousand dollar staircase to shine. As of now, that shine foretold immense dissatisfaction, which meant that Henry would have to placate expeditiously, lest he loose something vital. Like a limb.

"_Well_, now," and beginning so ominously usually signified imminent doom. "What did Oscar have to say?"

_That_ tone made Henry blink, for Frank had sounded so disgustingly cheerful, with inflections of a joyous man in his voice, that Henry was startled and immediately wary. Frank was _mad. _

Which meant Frank knew Henry was warming Oscar's bed, and obviously, ardently, did not approve.

"Shite," he cursed quietly, and then sighed as he made his way up the stairs, clomping just to be belligerent. He moved towards Frank and stood at his side, well away from the staircase. He had seen "_Death Becomes Her_" and had no wish to take a spill down the long flight of steps.

"Not much, _Frankie_," he got away with that nickname because of the unattractiveness of his own.

"Oh _really_, Sparky?"

Frank moved down the hall and Henry followed obediently. They went into Frank's study, and Henry knew that once the door was shut the yelling would commence. So, he left it open.

"Shut the door."

_Damn_.

Frank gave him an exasperated glare, his handsome face red with contained rage, and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Did you take care of Benny and Scott, like I asked you?" And boy did that make Henry sound like a kid. "Or were you too busy getting fucked sideways?"

"We never fuck sideways," Henry said before he could stop himself. "It's bad for Oscar's back."

A resounding slap echoed throughout the room, and Henry's head flew back as the whiplash made a blinding pain erupt in his cranium before the sting of his cheek could register. Frank stood in front of him silently as he held a hand to his face and cursed aloud.

"Fuck, that hurt!"

"You deserved that," Frank said flatly, but not without regret.

Henry adjusted his jaw. "Yeah, I know, I can't help myself, but bugger!"

He was placed into a chair and given a handkerchief to stop the bleeding. By the time they were seated and pouring scotch, Frank's notorious temper had fizzled out and Henry had forgotten and forgave the pain in his jaw.

"I took care of it, by the way," Henry started slowly. "Oscar agreed that they needed to go."

"Good, they were in dire need of a vacation, anyway," and the man was silent before chortling in amusement. Henry smiled at him, knowing the bastards outside in their too-obvious white van had just spilled coffee and donuts with the profanity turned up a notch.

Frank sobered and glared at him over his glass. "You're forgetting, _Heinrich_," and he said it so bitterly Henry was a bit alarmed. "To whom you belong."

Henry sighed, and Frank growled at him, "You belong to me. You belong to McAllister. Say it."

He raised his eyebrows at his boss, and Frank acknowledged how truly ridiculous the request was with a half-shrug and a pointed look.

"I belong to McAllister," Henry repeated sarcastically, and rolled his eyes.

The huff Frank let out seemed to move his entire body up and down. "How I wish you were past your teenage rebellion and just as talented."

Henry gasped and turned up his collar. "Why, Frankie, you've never called me talented before!"

Frank drained his glass, scowling. "And that pretty face doesn't help your attitude much either."

He made as if he were about to faint. "Two compliments? _Two_? What is this, the second coming?"

"Praise be to the lord," Frank added derisively, filling another glass. "Did they protest too much, Sparky?" gesturing to the blood on Henry's sleeve.

Henry shoved up his shirt and showed him the scratch where a bullet had nicked him. "Can you believe it, mate? My beautiful skin-marred!"

Frank laughed thoroughly at his expense. "I don't know why it bothers you, it's not going to scar, not with your '_absolute power_'thing going on."

"I _do_ have absolute power, thank you," Henry said. "the other one was more than happy to go on holiday, poor bloke practically started to ball when I suggested it. Good on you, boss, for seeing his life-long desire of a trip to the Caribbean. Good on you."

They both knew very well that Scott had never wanted to go to the Caribbean, in fact the Caribbean was only where Henry had dumped the body, and as a dead man, he really wouldn't be able to enjoy the white sands and cool beaches at all.

"What a lovely place for a vacation," Frank mentioned, mock pensive. "Good on _you_ for picking such a spot."

"No, no, no," and Henry waved his arms about. "Good on _you_ for allowing him the chance to take advantage of such a spot."

Frank stopped him before it could continue, "All right, that's enough."

Henry grinned. "Right-o, boss."

Frank made to say something, but was cut off by a knock on the door. The small smile he had been wearing previously fell as he hollered, "Come _the fuck _in!"

"Don't mind if I do," Dex Anibal said all-too confidently, adding a lecherous smile when he noticed Henry. He shut the door behind him.

"Dex, you _moronic bastard_!" Frank yelled. "Do you realize I've got a Torres up my ass and a Cordero _fucking my mouth _right now?"

Dex sat down in the chair next to Henry and made eyes at him, before turning back to Frank. "Sounds like a party."

Honestly infuriated, Frank stood up from his seat and pinned Dex with _that_ glare. "You fucking killed what's-his-name Torres and now they're taking out _my men _like it's a _fucking free-for-all_!"

Dex remained silent as Frank said, "This isn't goddamn California, Dex. You're on _my _territory, working _for me_, not yourself or anyone else. Do you understand?"

"At least in L.A. shit actually gets done. No political crime to speak of," and he smiled at Frank as if to say, _go ahead and fuck with me. _"Or pussy bosses."

He winked at Henry as if Henry were somehow impressed with him for smart-mouthing Frank McAllister. Henry grimaced, and thought the man quite stupid.

"You stupid fuck!" bellowed Frank. "New York. _New_. _York_. Not L.A., not Beaners vs. Blacks, not 'let's go kill whoever and not pay the price'!"

Frank filled up another glass, breathing deeply until he finally let out one huge sigh and glared at the man across from him. "Jesus Christ, Dex, you're not holding up to your end of the deal."

Dex stood furiously, his eyes flashing with malice and rage. "Yes I _fuckin_g am," and did _the _Dex Anibal, the toughest hit-man in New York look scared? "You told me to scare that Tony kid, so I did, it's not my fucking fault he was going to pop a cap in my back."

"Well of course he was, you imbecile!" Frank retorted, his expression clearly saying that he thought Dex was completely retarded. "You broke both his goddamn legs and left his gun on him. I'd take the shot too!"

"Then maybe you should have been more specific, asshole!"

Dex moved over to Henry and grabbed his arm, pulling it so hard it would have broken had Henry stayed put.

"No," said Frank, and there was a tense silence afterward. "You show me some respect, some _goddamn loyalty_, and we'll negotiate. If I'm not satisfied, Dex," and he turned his irate blue eyes on the man, so harsh and cruel that Henry wondered when Frank had started hating Dex so very much, or if he always had. "_You're_ not satisfied."

Dex fumed silently for a moment, his grip on Henry's arm tight enough to bruise, and finally pushed him away forcefully. Henry scoffed and brushed off his shirt.

"Fine," and Dex blew out an angry gust of air. "Fine."

When he had gone, with a heavy slam of the door and loud stomping down the stairs, Henry sat back down and lit a cigarette. He watched Frank as the man settled again, still drinking heavily.

After a time, Henry said, "Thanks."

Frank stared at him, his eyes serious, and leaned forward marginally. "If Dex finds out you've got another cock up your ass besides his, he'll draw out," he thought for a moment. "And then probably kill Oscar, which would fucking blow for our alliance."

Henry nodded, knowing what Frank hadn't said; _and he'll kill you, and we can't have that. _"You want me to stop seeing Oscar, then."

"It matters very little what I want," Frank snapped. "Dex will kill him, so I suppose it all depends on how much you love the German prick."

He sat back in his seat and thought for a moment, knowing that Frank spoke with his best interests at heart, but also that he harbored a severe hatred for the man who was supposed to be his ally. Henry was suddenly very appreciative that Frank McAllister loved him so much, enough to keep him out of trouble and not order that he stop seeing Oscar. Henry got up from his seat and approached the man, and Frank looked so surprised (and was that hopeful?) that Henry almost stopped. Carefully, he made his way over to the desk and sat down on it and in front of Frank.

"Really, Frankie," he said, and his tone was gentle. "I've not loved very many. You know that," Henry reached out to touch his face, and Frank flinched.

"I don't bite, love," he reprimanded with a handsome smile. He put his glass of scotch to the side and leant back. Frank watched his every move. "You know Oscar doesn't have me, so why worry?"

If that wasn't an invitation Frank would eat his own foot.

"Yeah?" he said, and rose from his seat, in more ways than one. His hands curled around those slim hips and he observed as Henry's smile turned into something smug, and altogether too sensual. "So who do you belong to?"

Henry barely got out, "I belong to Mc-" before Frank's mouth was on his and their bodies close enough to burn. Henry lost himself in hands and mouths, tongues and breath, doing his very best at allowing Frank his much needed pleasure, this only being the second time the man had ventured to ask him for such. Getting onto his knees, gladly, Henry smiled at Frank who's eyes burned with arousal.

Frank wasn't and had never been a personal person. He had no ties to any family, no children to pass his name on, and his tastes varied from a supple woman to a beautiful man. Henry was everything he had always wanted in a sexual partner, but not a life partner, and that fluke made Frank hesitate to find pleasure in the boy. Henry was also just barely sixteen, and Frank found that thought repulsive, but observed that in moments of weakness (such as this one) he could not help allowing the boy anything. Anything at all.

Henry took his mouth away, leaving Frank gasping at the strength of his release, and took a smooth sip of his scotch. The man was so sexually repressed that Henry found it hard not to laugh at the flustered expression on his handsome face.

He waited for the man to calm, fix himself, and then pour another draft of alcohol. Before he could say anything to lighten the mood, Frank said, "I hear Peru is a nice place for a vacation. Peru should go there. Torres, I mean."

He liked that about Frank, liked that business was business. Henry smiled at him, "What a holiday," he said, and downed his drink before making his way out of the study.

"Shoot, kid," Frank's voice followed him out. "You drive me bat shit crazy."

Henry turned his head, and grinned.

The man trembling before him had already pissed himself; a new record time if Henry was feeling pretentious about it. The stench of urine added to the already rotting smell of garbage in the alley, and he grimaced as he moved forward. The crab walk Peru "_ugly Peru_" Torres was doing at the moment made him laugh. Torres frightfully looked about for the source of the disembodied chuckling as they both steadily made their way further into the alley, only coming to a halt when the wall hit Peru's back.

The entire side of the man's face was completely scarred, his eye, though still miraculously working, swiveled about underneath a badly charred eyelid, and his cheeks were rough with scar tissue where the skin had melted almost down to the bone. Consequently, the burn marks made one eye pop a bit more than the other, and added to the rather stout and crouched stature of the man. He was a repugnant sight, though Henry had no prejudices against the handicapped, and he rather thought what he was about to do would not be seen as a tragedy. Peru's scarred face gave him the nickname "_ugly Peru_", and Henry thought that very blunt and inordinately cruel.

This Torres was the bastard son of Jose Torres, a good-as lackey as any, but bitterness from his involuntary fight with fire had begot rashness, and a capricious temper that annoyed both powers in the war. Henry thought he was an amusing man, but the higher-ups had agreed to dispose of him.

"What the fuck was that all about, mate?" Henry asked him, still laughing though trying hard to stop. He imitated the crab walk while standing (which was quite a feat) and smiled. "That's funny shit."

"I-I-I-," Peru stuttered.

Henry laughed uproariously once more, his sides hurting, "I-I-I-," and it tickled him greatly. "Classic, fuck that's classic."

Peru seemed to sober, as much as a man facing his imminent death could, and Henry smirked at his sudden determined ire. "Did you like my light trick?" he asked casually.

He used that little piece of magic sometimes, allowing for his prey to imagine it day or night when it was vice versa, and the whole mist bit was just for kicks and giggles mostly. The curse that mimicked the effects of a Dementor always made the bladder go, and though the smell was usually terrible, he quite liked the barefaced fear exhibited in front of him.

"That was you?" Peru scowled, his face quivering. "Who _the fuck _are you?"

Henry glared at him, askance, and then remembered he was concealed in a dramatic shadow he'd summoned earlier, for effect, and swatted it away.

"Y-y-you!" he gasped, with the finger pointing and everything.

Henry shook his head, honestly disappointed, and said, "Too many movies, mate, and judging by your embellished gesticulations, bad movies to boot."

"Please don't kill me! I'm useful! I-I-can negotiate with Jose…I'll do what ever you want, please, please don't kill me!"

Henry scowled. "And here I thought I was doing you a favor, what with your ugly mug and all, but you know," and he shook a finger at Peru. "It seems like you _really_ don't want to die."

"No, please, I beg you, no!"

"Is it because Peru has been mighty bad in the eyes of the lord?" he asked, trying very hard to keep a straight face. "Lead us not into temptation, and deliver us from evil, eh?"

Peru said nothing, did nothing, his body shaking so forcefully it looked like the man was having a nightmarish fit. Henry sighed.

"Would you like some reassurance that you're going to reach the Promised Land?" he said softly, oddly meditative. "That paradise is a bullet away?"

He loaded the gun as he spoke, admiring the cool metal and the shadows that cradled it.

"I-" and Peru exhaled, the fear and anger replaced by shocked resignation. The man was suddenly aware that he was going to die. "Yes."

Henry didn't do last rites, wasn't a certified priest, you see, but he did point his gun at the center of Peru's forehead, and say, "Paradise is a bullet away," and shoot into the night.

McKay met him at the diner per usual, his disgruntled coffee drinking-self devouring _David Copperfield _as the words flowed silently through his lips. Henry took a seat opposite him and placed _Great Expectations_ on the table.

"Hello to you too," Henry said wryly, and then asked curiously, "How's the reading?"

McKay glanced at him over his book, annoyed, and marked his place and put it aside, knowing he wouldn't be reading any more any time soon. Like a dog offered attention, Henry sat up once McKay acknowledged him, imaginary ears perking up in interest, and a nonexistent tail wagging to-and-fro.

"Excellent," he said softly. "Your Dickens is a talented fucker."

"_My _Dickens?" Henry repeated, confused. "Oh! Because he's a limey you mean," and he grinned. "I don't know if anybody told you, but we've got Lennon as well. Patented and everything."

"Smart ass," McKay picked up the new book. "First edition, kid. You're learning."

"I'm just that good," the waitress came over and placed a cup of coffee in front of him, and he smiled at her, wondering when she blushed if she was the same bird from last week.

"Frank told me Peru is in Peru, and Benny and Scott went on a permanent vacation," it came out idly, and a little amused.

"The Caribbean is lovely this time of year."

"Any close calls?" McKay asked, still inspecting _Great Expectations _with a critical eye.

"Nah," and Henry really was as disappointed as he sounded. "Same old, same old, as you Yanks like to say. There's just no spice anymore, Uncle John, no spice at all."

His friend glared at him. "I've been doing this for close to twenty years. How do you think I fucking feel?"

Henry groaned, flicking his lighter on and off. "No doubt you're dreadfully bored," he whined. "It makes us seem so mundane!"

"If it's any consolation," McKay said, raising his eyebrows at Henry's dramatics. "I suspect you could never be boring, Sparky."

Henry waved a lighter around, making the flame separate and float in the air, and he grabbed the metal from the boy before he could start a fire.

McKay liked his "magic tricks" as he liked to call them, and was a little frightened of them (a rational fear) but never did question the strange phenomena that surrounded Henry constantly. If he did, he had an inkling he'd be dead by the barrel of Henry's gun, or Frank's, considering the man would certainly kill (not a hard task) to protect the boy.

John knew that when killing got boring, men like them would either retire, kill themselves, or go completely postal and take out a nursing home, or a crowded restaurant…or a grocery store. Sparky was too young to be bored, too young to be killing, and too young to be that dangerous. It was also highly unlikely that the boy would retire, or go on to other undertakings.

No, McKay was frightened of the prospect of Henry's boredom, because it wouldn't be curmudgeon-y old lady's taking the bullet; Henry would only settle for destroying the entire fucking world. John would admit to himself, at night when no one could hear him, that Henry Christopher Brooks scared the living shit out of him.

The door to the diner opened, and the bell went off, but McKay didn't pay attention until footsteps stopped in front of their booth. Henry was busy struggling with a rolled cigarette.

"Henry Christopher Brooks?" the man said, and Henry looked up.

"Yeah?" both of his eyebrows were raised in curiosity.

The man smiled, and gambled, "Harry James Potter?"

Henry's cigarette fell out of his mouth, and John stared at the look of panic, _deadly_ panic, on his face.

"Yeah," and Henry's glare promised bloodshed, and lots of it.

John McKay didn't know where the light came from, or how it put an impressive car-sized hole in the wall behind them, didn't see any science fiction-like ray guns, though he did catch a small glimpse of a smooth piece of wood sticking out of the man's jacket. He couldn't tell where exactly Henry was able to shoot a similar light back at him, with similar effects, wasn't sure how it happened at all, but hoped to God the table he'd made a temporary barrier out of didn't get smashed to pieces, and thus smash _him_ in the process.

He couldn't help but smile sardonically, and think, _now _there's _your spice, Sparky! _


	3. Chapter Two

A/n: Thank you very much to those who reviewed, favorite'd, and alerted! I can tell you all that I'm _quite _happy with the response so far. I really must say though, it is very hard not to update more frequently than every Friday, but hey, I'm sticking with it just in case the week turns out to be a shit storm. Plans are going well!

A Few Responses: Fudge: I couldn't wait either! Which is why I'm awake at one in the morning and posting. Shame on us, ha! Thanks for reviewing! Christina: Thank you! I'm glad to be back, honestly. It was sad to check my email every day and only find assignments and humdrum chain letters. Makes for a boring time, you know. You really are making me blush with this amazing writer business, and I do hope you find some fault with me, because if my head swells any more I won't be able to fit into my new hat. Thanks for reviewing, love. Amazonia: You should have simply left a review that said 'First!' it's so obnoxious it's funny as hell. Ah, but I love you.

Dedication: This chapter is dedicated to the people who tried to pass a law restricting profanity in California, in what was probably the funniest idea of 2010. Fucking _beautiful. _

Warnings for this chapter: Violence, CD, slash, and a cliffhanger.

* * *

Pistol Whipped

Chapter Two

FBI Agent Donnelly was currently explaining the fundamentals of the McAllister and Van Rued alliance to new recruit, FBI Agent Monroe, with little success. While trying her best to comprehend the intricacies of the syndicates, Agent Monroe found she had very little experience pertaining to her new profession. Albuquerque, where she had originally worked as a blue, had very little danger except for the stray violent drag queen and liquor store robber. She was the first to admit that she was a bit out of her league, and the second to point it out would be Donnelly, at no expense of his own. It wasn't all that complicated to understand, the ties to every big boss and their functions, but Donnelly sure made it sound complex with his nearly inarticulate, passionate babbling.

"Frank McAllister had Jesus Cordero take a vacation, that means they killed him, by the way, with Henry Brooks and Dex Anibal doing the hit. So Cordero's son, Juan that is, started a war with McAllister, teaming up with Jose Torres and all his badass associates. McAllister, in effect, teamed up with Oscar Van Rued, so here we have our two main powers, both predominately drug and arms dealers, fighting over the murder of Jesus Cordero, which makes the worst parts of New York their playground, where everyone and their mom is getting into a firefight. Do you follow?"

Monroe did follow, however jumbled the explanation was, and managed a small nod. "So who _exactly_ are we after?" Which was not entirely a stupid question, but seemed to be moronic enough to make Donnelly scowl.

"McAllister, Monroe. McAllister. Agent Lawrence and his team are on the Torres-Cordero faction."

He poured a cup of coffee and sighed. "We want McAllister, but we may have to settle for McKay. McKay has less influence and more evidence. We got this guy killing on surveillance from way back in the eighties."

Monroe watched as Brooks entered the diner precisely on time. "Can we get Brooks, as well?"

Donnelly seemed disappointed in her for some indiscernible reason. "Unlikely. England couldn't get him. No separate faction from the one he works with has ever gotten him. The guy's marked as 'un-hittable'." Seeing Monroe looking rather blank, he resignedly extrapolated. "He's like a goddamn cockroach."

"A dead sexy cockroach," Marks piped up, his fingers flying on his computer.

"Keep the gayness to a minimum, okay Marks?" Donnelly said crossly, even though Marks wouldn't ever touch a cock that wasn't his own, and only said ridiculous things to rile him up. Donnelly observed Monroe and that blush (which meant she had been thinking the same thing about their pretty-faced criminal) and shook his head. "What have we got this week?"

"_Great Expectations_," Marks said joyfully, and tapped the screen in front of them. "Nice choice. Who knew criminals were literate?"

"Not in Albuquerque they're not," Monroe mentioned wryly. "I have to say," and she took a long draft of her extra-sweetened coffee. "Smart criminals _are_ refreshing."

"They're the worst kind," Donnelly snapped. "The absolute devils of society. Once they one-up you, Monroe, you'll be singing a different tune. I assure you."

Just as the agents' sat down and settled in for a few hours of watch, Marks sat up at his computer and said, "Well now, who's this?"

Donnelly leaned over him and looked at the feed, where a man about the size of McKay, but thinner, was making his way through the diner and towards McKay and Brooks. He was wearing a long black trench coat, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing the strange tattoos on his arms. He had short blond hair, almost yellow, and odd, clear gray eyes. Donnelly wondered if the camera was at fault, or if the man simply had the strangest irises he'd ever seen. With McKay and Brooks, he didn't look too out of place, so his appearance caused little alarm at first. No, it was McKay's wary expression and Brook's surprise that shook him.

"What are you doing?" he suddenly hollered at Marks, who had his eyes stuck on the screen. "Get me a profile! Jesus!"

Marks started typing quickly, entering the description as best as he could. Donnelly felt Monroe edge up next to him, making a low sound in her throat that betrayed her curiosity. Donnelly continued to watch the screen, and whispered to himself, "Who the fuck is this?"

He felt his heart fly up to his throat at the glare on Brook's face, not knowing what exactly the man had said to make him _that_ mad. What happened next displaced the obsession he'd been harboring for years, to get Frank "The Bastard" McAllister behind bars. It damn well got rid of every philosophical mumbo jumbo he had ever thought about life, love, and humanity. It left him staring in absolute shock at the feed, breathless with numb disbelief, and his two comrades looking just as bad, if not worse. It was unexplainable, impossible, and perfectly ridiculous. What had been in his coffee?

"Um," Marks said, interrupting the quiet. "Fuck me if I'm wrong, but that's a little abnormal."

Monroe's panicked squeak of "you've got that right!" was drowned out by the resounding _BANG_! of unknown arsenal, and the frightened screams just outside the van.

_-_-_-_-_-_

Henry had never been so furious. Well, except for that one time with the whole betrayal of trusted bosses and fathers thing, and then the ensuing murder of a lover and then the vengeance that followed where there had been quite a bit of bloodshed, well…never mind. The difference between that fury and this one, he would have to say, was the surprise. Henry hated being surprised.

The man who was currently assaulting him was very skilled with a wand, but like most wizards, he had the tendency to blow holes in things without aiming in an attempt to hit his target. The only mistake in Henry's logic was that the man had surprisingly good aim (most of the time, and fuck surprises) and once Henry found his body lifted by a curse and thrust straight through the diner (and into the goddamn street) he decided enough was, verily, enough.

Not expecting his sudden offensive strike, which came in the form of turning the diner pitch black, the assassin floundered for a moment and Henry made his way stealthily back inside. He cast a body bind at him, and a heard a solid _thump!_ as he hit the floor. Henry sighed and marched over to him, quickly making a portkey and shoving it into the man's pocket.

When his bound and stunned assailant disappeared, Henry cursed profusely at the gaping hole in the restaurant, but kept the lights out. He put it to rights with a shake of his hand, and then started his patented memory altering sequence. He pictured McKay and him at their booth talking in low tones, _Great Expectations _in front of them and then their departure at…he checked his mobile phone; 10:47 a.m..

The sounds of panic and yowls of "what the fuck is going on?" suddenly stopped. Henry turned the lights back on and plopped himself down in his seat. McKay looked so befuddled, having been barricaded behind a table one moment, and then abruptly back in the booth the next, with the diner perfectly fine and its patrons eating and chatting casually.

"W-what, eh!" he said upon seeing Henry.

"Meet me back at the house," Henry said shortly, and then grabbed up his forgotten cigarette and made toward the door.

McKay wondered if he were going completely mad. He wondered if the entire thing had been imagined, or a very strong hallucination. He tried calling Henry back for some sort of explanation, but the boy had already gone. McKay floundered in his seat, not wanting to touch _Great Expectations _or the table, seeing as everything was either bewitched or, well, _he_ was.

"More coffee?" the waitress said, sidling up to him silently. He jumped a half a foot in the air, then grimaced and stuttered, "Uh, um, no!"

She frowned in alarm, as he grabbed up the book with his forefinger and thumb, walking backward as he looked at the people around the diner. He must have been staring rather oddly, because they glared right back and he heard a distinct mutter of, "He must be nuts, scoot over here, Kate" coming from a worried couple. McKay got out of there quickly, in a right state, convinced the entire thing was a very, very powerful mind trick, until the FBI entered his personal bubble, that is.

"McKay! _McKay_!" he heard his name and turned, and then groaned at seeing Agent Donnelly practically sprinting toward him. He wondered if he should be running away.

Donnelly made it up to him, panting, a tall woman next to him with a very obvious suit on that positively _screamed_ government. McKay glared at him, rather charily.

"We're," and Donnelly caught his breath. "Not here to arrest you."

"I'm doing fine, thanks for asking," he retorted sourly. "What a greeting."

"Listen McKay, judging by your confused expression, you have no idea what happened in there, do you?"

McKay hated how cops asked questions by assuming things, it would get lesser criminals to open up, but McKay wasn't a lesser criminal, and he rolled his eyes at the man. "That's correct."

Donnelly scowled. "We're going to have to take you in for questioning."

McKay scoffed. "If you want directions you can just ask me without the cuffs, doc."

"I need answers for what happened in there!" Donnelly yelled, jutting a thumb at the diner behind them, and his voice betrayed him to be on the point of hysteria. "That kind of disturbance caused by…well, caused by…."

"What disturbance?" McKay provoked, and gestured to the diner while lighting a smoke. Behind them, a couple walked out laughing happily, the place looking the same as always, no hole to speak of, and certainly no signs of a disturbance. "We had a cup of coffee at our place, like we always do, Donnelly. Unless the law changed, I'm pretty sure that's legal."

Donnelly sputtered.

"Oh," he leaned forward, and whispered conspiratorially, "Are you _high_, agent?"

The man looked so irate then, that the tall woman had enough sense to step in between them. "Look, we just want to know what happened. That whole thing was, well…abnormal. We have it on tape, McKay."

"Shut up right now!" Donnelly yelled, but McKay had heard and smirked jubilantly.

"Might want to leash your new partner, Donnelly. The last one wasn't trained at all, and you know how that ended," he pointed the end of his cigarette at him, laughing.

Agent Donnelly was suddenly right in his face. "I'm going to fucking get you, McKay, I swear to God, I'll get you."

McKay chortled and raised two fingers. "By all means, swear to whomever you want, but at the end of the day, buddy, I still come out smelling like roses."

"You saw something in there you can't explain," ah, the 'switching the subject' maneuver of cops, that sadly, still didn't work on him. "You want answers just like I do!"

"Oh, and I suppose we'll find them together?" he said sarcastically, taking a drag. He suddenly had a thought. "You didn't see anything at Alice's Restaurant, just the usual criminals who happen to like Dickens," he passed a hand over Donnelly's face.

"What the fuck, McKay?" and Donnelly swatted it away.

He scoffed, "I knew Lucas was full of shit."

The fed could do very little about McKay walking away from him. The bastard even stubbed out his cigarette in a goddamn ash tray. Donnelly made his way back to the surveillance van, with Monroe close behind him. Marks was outside watching them approach, his eyes wide and skittering from them to the diner.

"Lock that tape up, Marks," Donnelly barked, and waited while the young man scampered back inside.

"I kind of messed up, didn't I?" Monroe asked his back, carefully.

He turned around and burned a hole in her pretty head with his glare. "Kind of messed up? _Kind of_? Provided it was a given McKay would know we had a feed, he didn't need the goddamn assurance, Monroe!"

"I'm sorry," she got out desperately. "It's just so different than Albuquerque!"

Before Donnelly could tell her that every idiot in the nation must be born and bred there, Marks stomped toward them and popped his head out of the van.

"It's gone, boss!"

Donnelly cursed so badly Monroe blushed, and Marks went back into the van posthaste. He was having a terrible, horrible, extremely _bad day_.

_-_-_-_-_-_

By the time McKay was finally able to make it to McAllister's manor, the sun had already set, heavily and forebodingly bringing on the night. What he had seen made little to no sense in the real world, though he was a bit skewed on his definition of the "real world" as it was, and it pulsed and plundered his mind with a need for an explanation. Until then, his sanity would remain in a state of disorder. McKay hated disorder.

Born and raised in Dallas, Texas, his parents wonderfully kind, McKay had strict morals and a love for authority. He had joined the army and fought a war in the name of his country, had come back home and married, and had eventually carried his legacy on with two beautiful daughters. McKay was a family man, a good man, and also a McAllister man. Those men who had very few morals, they worked for Frank, and though John's moral fiber could have been an impediment to his job, he was rather a diamond in the rough. Most mob men were drug addicts, pretentious fools, and bloodthirsty killers, the ones that remained rational, the ones that did it for the morals and the family, they kept their heads on straight in more ways than one.

John McKay was a family man, and always would be. He had told Frank McAllister when he had enlisted that should his family need anything, his first priority was in Dallas, not New York. Frank was an exceedingly fair minded man, a very "give and receive" kind of man, and had agreed upon one condition: that John do whatever it was Frank asked, without question or hesitation. Twenty years of murder, assault, and physical threats later, made John regret his decision a bit. But his kids had a college fund big enough to provide anything, an inheritance that would meet their needs for a while yet, and they got to see their daddy every weekend, in what John thought was a fair, McAllister-like deal.

Though Frank was indeed merciless to all but his men, bosses usually didn't have a problem with him, for he was always cordial, in every transaction, and very savvy. The war with the Cordero-Torres faction had been a mistake, according to the other side, but McKay knew they both had been planning to kill McAllister's best offense, Henry Brooks, and the hit to kill Jesus Cordero had been called for damn good reason. The war, though a bloody and tense one, would be won by McAllister and Van Rued. Cordero and Torres were too hot-headed to get much done.

McKay had understood back then, that Brooks was a talented young man, seemingly perfect in every way, and for those reasons Frank loved him more than what was healthy. What McKay didn't understand, was why Frank hadn't let Cordero go after Brooks. The boy would have taken them down quietly and efficiently, and a thwarted hit was never the victim's folly. Thwarted hits never started a war in mob fanfare. The fair game policy Frank enforced had ended with that unsuccessful killing; it had ended when Henry Brooks had stepped into the McAllister manor. One boy was now single-handedly screwing up the order McKay so loved.

The only answer to Frank's blatant favoritism, was Brooks' apt ability to kill, and the advantage of superior weapons that apparently England had and the U.S. didn't (McKay was skeptical), and, added because of recent events, some sort of supernatural capability that the kid could wield. Well, what the hell.

He wasn't sure if he wanted to believe it, if he _could _believe it, that Brooks was some sort of _being_ besides a human. Some sort of bizarre mob lackey with bright lights shooting out of his hands to create massive demonstrations of abnormal talent…and holes in diners. The name, too, what did that mean? It wasn't unusual for criminals to go by a number of names, but why had he felt an immediate sense of foreboding upon hearing the boy's alternate identity?

Oh yes, his freak show senses had tingled. Welcome to New York.

The assailant, McKay remembered, had been one hell of a creeper. Certainly not as scary as the expression on Brooks' face when the man had addressed him as Harry something (damn, the kid was pissed), but equally imposing. Equally odd.

What scared him most of all about this entire debacle, was the meeting he was due to have with Frank and Brooks. His so far automatic and swift steps now stopped in front of his boss's office, and he could hear them speaking in low murmurs. John found himself exhaling and inhaling forcefully, scared to death of the repercussions of knowing , scared of McAllister's protectiveness and the urges that came with it; scared of Henry Brooks, a sixteen year old delinquent that killed like he changed clothes.

He opened the door slowly.

"Come in, John," Frank said, and McKay felt his heart skip. Brooks was sitting on top of Frank's desk, facing him in a rather familiar and awfully intimate way. John stood in front of them stiffly, hardly looking at his long time friend so he wouldn't see the disappointment there or perhaps the fatal resignation.

"Sit down, my friend."

He swallowed, his eyes moving from Brooks to McAllister and back. Moving slowly, he sat himself down, wearily turning his eyes to his boss.

Frank had a rather concerned expression on his face. "What do you think this is, McKay?"

John wasn't sure what to say, "Sorry?" he settled.

Seeming genuinely upset, Frank leaned forward in his seat and responded, "Jesus, old man, I couldn't get rid of you if I tried," and he smiled at Henry. "Brooks would kill me, as well."

John breathed such a sigh of relief that Henry laughed. "Shut up, Sparky," he scowled.

"The look on your bloody face when you came in! Ha!" Henry gave him a rousing pat on the back. "Come on then, Uncle John, if Frank wanted you on Holiday I would have to send you off, and then my poor heart would break!" He ended with a flourish.

McKay chuckled. "You're such a fairy."

Frank looked amused. "He's our fairy though."

"Aw, I'm touched," Henry winked. "Especially by you Frankie."

McAllister blushed ridiculously, and McKay put a hand over his eyes; pained. "I'm happy for you boss, but keep the details to a minimum."

"He needs a leash," Frank managed after his blush died down, and Henry gave the man a lecherous grin that made McKay groan in disgust.

"All right, back to business," and he shifted in his seat. "John, I think you should take a week or so off, go and spoil your kids and the like."

John felt the panic return, and he stuttered, "But…I thought…um…" had he changed his mind? Would they go as far as to go after his family?

Henry scowled at Frank. "Don't say it like that," he turned to John. "He doesn't want you to get caught in the crossfire, especially as a witness."

The young man sighed and turned back to Frank. "He needs answers first, Frankie."

Properly chastised, Frank smiled at John by way of an apology. "Henry here is a wizard."

Silence.

"_Eh_?"

"What? Did you think I was just ridiculously good at killing people without a little supernatural help?" He wiggled his fingers for emphasis. "I'm flattered."

"Ignoring the fact there is something seriously fucked up about your morality, I feel the need to point something out to you," and John was pretty sure of himself. "Wizards don't exist."

The floating paper weight dancing about in front of his eyes begged to differ. McKay realized he was gaping and closed his mouth. "Like Merlin? Or, uh, Gandalf?"

"Merlin was real, you know," Henry said offhandedly, and then scratched his head. "Not so much Gandalf."

Frank cleared his throat, "Well, yes, anyway," he grinned. "Apparently there's an entire world full of wizards and goblins, and unicorns."

"Unicorns?" Gay.

"Yes, Unicorns, I know, gay."

"I quite like unicorns," Henry decided to add his two cents.

"You would," and Frank shook a finger at him. "Anyway, there's an entire community of Brooks-like people out there, with wands and pointy hats and a _legal_ system."

"Have we broken their laws too?"

"Yep!" Henry said happily. "By showing magic to the masses, like I did today, and then illegally altering their memories, we have now wracked up at least eighty cases of illegal magic in the last two years."

"Altered their memories?" McKay asked, unable to really comprehend the rest. "You didn't alter mine, uh, I don't think, at least."

"We've wanted you to know from the start," Frank said seriously. "You're my best friend, John, you should have known."

"That was my fault," Henry said, and he spared an apologetic look at John. "I didn't trust you at first, John, so I begged Frankie to keep silent. He's right though, you should have known from the start. I must have given you quite the shock this morning."

"You did, Sparky," he managed to say. "You really did."

"I'm sorry, again," Frank did look contrite. "The circumstances are different now because of this wizard legal system. Especially the American one."

"They're in the U.S., as well?"

Henry sat forward and continued where Frank left off. "Absolutely," he sat on the desk again. "You Yanks are the worst of our kind. Merciless and rude, usually when a muggle sees magic your U.S. Hit Wizards simply gets rid of them. They haven't had a need to because I only use magic when I'm doing a hit, and the muggle involved is usually too dead to talk."

"Um," he cleared his throat a bit unnecessarily. "Muggle?"

"People who can't do magic. Non-wizards," Henry clarified.

"That's a, uh,"

"Gay name, I know," and Henry smiled at him. "Our world is very different than yours, needless to say."

"Ha, no kidding," McKay scoffed, overwhelmed. "So these wizards will come after me?"

"That's what we're trying to prevent," Frank motioned. "Getting out of the country is first priority for you now, John."

His boss brought out a yellow envelope. "Posthaste," he finished as an after thought, and passed it to John, who looked inside.

"Frank," he started, at seeing the contents, but the man cut him off.

"I know you can afford it, my friend, but consider this your bonus for the last twenty years."

Rolls of thousands and four tickets to Paris was a bonus?

"I," he relented, and sighed. "Thank you."

"Don't think this means you're retired you old codger," Henry piped up, grinning. "Frank wants you back to work when all this clears up."

Frank gave Henry a smile, and nodded to his friend. "And no thanks are needed, John," he stood up and Henry and John followed. "Nothing could be accomplished without you."

Undoubtedly touched, John looked down at the envelope in his hands and licked his lips. "Oh," his head shot up when Henry's voice interrupted their moment. "Here's a mobile," he handed it to John.

"It's got an anti-tracking charm on it, because I'm a genius and I've managed to convert muggle technology into an acceptable sieve for energy currents," he stopped at their blank expressions, and resignedly raised a shoulder. "It's cop and wizard-proof, is what I mean."

John took it from him. "You call me the moment something happens," Henry tapped the screen. "Or for any sort of disturbance you think may be hostile. Anything."

The phone looked normal to John, but he took it anyway.

"You'll get a better explanation later. Tempus Fugit, and all that."

Frank gave him a one-armed hug. "Stay safe, old friend."

"I will," he said, and Henry pounced on him.

"You ready, then?" he said, almost excited.

"Are you…"

"…escorting me?" he squeezed out in a short breath. "What the fuck?!"

Henry frowned. "This isn't your house?"

"Holy _shit_! How did you…what?"

The lad laughed then, and pointed to himself. "Wizard. We can appear anywhere we've been before, or if we know the coordinates," he smiled. "This buys us time, because I've taken the tracking charm off of you and apparated…oh," Henry shook his head. "Never mind. Ready for your holiday?"

McKay scowled. "This is the strangest day of my life."

Henry clapped him on the shoulder. "Stranger things, mate," and that grin was back. "Stranger things."

John turned around to say, "No shit!" but Henry was gone. He spun in a circle, attempting to find the kid (maybe behind that hedge) but couldn't see anything. He shook his head fretfully. Wizards.

"Asshole."

"Daddy!"

"_John?!_"

He would think about it later.

_-_-_-_-_-_

Henry shut Frank's door behind him. He knew the man would still be at his desk, rife with concern and anxiety, and Henry didn't begrudge him that, but thought it pointless nevertheless. He had told Frank that he would take care of this new debacle, and he would. American Hit Wizards had always been a problem, but they had mostly left Henry to his business. Now that he had ousted himself to John so obviously, with such flare, they would be on him like white on rice, and Henry would be prepared.

The mercenary that had tried to kill him at the diner was a new ball thrown in his court, one that undoubtedly pissed him off. Besides Frank knowing very well he was magical, there were few that knew whom he truly was. There were numerous suspects, given the amount of magical folk he had met that could feel his power for what it was, but having no lead besides the mercenary didn't bode well for finding the boss. It was also highly unfortunate that the mercenary was now dead, having swallowed some sort of capsule that must have been hidden in his mouth, a sure fire way of avoiding a leak of information if captured. Henry had scolded himself greatly for not checking the man's mouth, but his concern had been drawn to McKay from the get-go, and despite the loss of his lead, there were other ways to find people.

He did have a hunch, however, that someone he knew very well had recognized him for what he was, and had either staged the hit or told a superior. A woman that Henry disliked quite a bit.

Janavich Van Rued was Oscar's wife, and she also happened to be a witch. Henry had first met Jana at a Van Rued Ball (they hosted one for their clients every Christmas) and it hadn't been her beauty that had cautioned him, though glorious, it was the odd magic that she wielded. Her focus wasn't so great that she didn't need a wand, but it was close to perfect. She used a variety of stones as her anchor, amber and ruby most prominently, but crystal as well, all of them about her neck as a show of wealth to anyone who didn't know better. Henry was aware of her power, not as volatile or controlled as his, but cautious all the same, and likewise, she had recognized his the moment he had met her. It was hard not to.

The most startling thing about Henry was his power, sometimes even muggles were known to feel it, and the immensity of it's depths had scared the hell out of Jana Van Rued. It wasn't, however, what made them enemies.

It was all territorial, in Henry's opinion. He warmed Oscar's bed and she didn't, he traipsed about Oscar's house as if he owned it, and she didn't. She had her social circles, her own manipulations, but a sixteen year old wizard had come into her world and had covered more ground in a year than she had in seventeen of them. Jana despised him because of her husband's obvious affection for him, whereas he paid very little attention to the woman that was his wife, the woman who happened to be a very powerful witch.

Henry was to blame, mostly, for he never passed up a chance to provoke Jana. He was cordial to her, but in a pretentious way, and though they had a polite relationship (mostly) with each other, everyone sensed the hate that hid there and assumed it was because of Henry's fraternizing with Oscar. Henry knew it was beyond that now, and even though he had covered his scar with permanent magic long ago, he suspected Jana had made her own assumptions, and had assumed correctly.

Jana, had sent the assassin, of that Henry had no doubt, and he was quite sure it was time to settle the long standing feud between them. He only hoped Oscar wouldn't be too upset over the loss of his wife.

_-_-_-_-_-_

The halls of the Manhattan Police Department were such a positive white that it emulated a hospital quite nicely, or, Donnelly thought, a morgue. It was so infernally bright during the day that a migraine developed just strolling down the hall to the first floor, and most if not all of the workers hated the interior with as much passion a cop could have, outside of catching criminals. FBI Agent Marshall Donnelly cursed the headquarters loudly as he moved toward the offices, intent on one thing and one thing only:

Getting some goddamn answers.

He wasn't fooling himself that the bureau would tell him anything, but he knew it didn't hurt to push for truths. People inadvertently let information go all the time, and that was what Donnelly was counting on. Monroe had decided to accompany him, unfortunately, and he slowed down his swift stride so she could catch up. He had wanted to take care of it himself, Marks had trusted him to do that, but Monroe seemingly had her own questions to ask, which didn't bode well considering his partner wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed. He would have to speak with the director about a direct flight to D.C., which he thought quite prudent given the situation.

"Come on, Monroe," he snapped, quickly making his way to the conference room.

"Will he even answer us, sir?" she asked, a bit nervously.

"God no, you dork," Donnelly scowled. "Not without a little pressure. This is Roswell shit, Monroe. _Roswell_ shit."

"But I though that was a myth!"

He sighed, and pushed open the doors, admitting them both into a large room with a whiteboard and chairs. He headed toward the phone, picking it up and trying to remember the extension for the director, saying, "Of course it is, but whatever we saw today is likely something the government knows about, and I for one, want some _goddamn_ answers!"

"And you'll have them, Agent Donnelly," came a voice from behind them. They both turned, and watched as man emerged from the shadow of the door, tall and imposing, wearing what looked like a standard S.W.A.T. uniform with slight adjustments. The boots were ornate and scaled, his vest more a suit of armor, studded with the same strange decorations. He had a utility belt around his waist, which held a standard Glock .23, a sword of all things, and a long stick sheathed in a metal holster.

"Uh," Monroe said in response, rather elegantly. "Where did you just come from?"

Donnelly acknowledged the closed door behind the man, and put the receiver down. "That was dramatic."

The unnamed government official (for he couldn't be anything else) walked forward with an amused grin on his face. "Why don't you both have a seat?"

Donnelly sat down in the closest chair warily, and pulled Monroe down when it looked like she was only going to stand there and gape.

"Good," the man said, smiling, and grabbed his own chair which he turned around and straddled. "I'm Special Agent Backus, of MCS76."

"MCS76," Monroe repeated blankly.

He smirked. "Short for Magical Control Sector."

Donnelly jeered, "Magic? Ooh," he wiggled his fingers. "Like wizards and Merlin and spells and shit?"

"And shit," the smirk widened into a grin. "Is it that unbelievable, given what you saw today, Agent Donnelly?"

Scowling, Donnelly shoved his tongue to the back of his mouth and nodded, "Not really, no." Despite the instant dislike he had for this Backus fellow, Donnelly was beginning to realize what this entire situation meant. He breathed in deeply, resigned, and turned to the Agent.

"So, you're actually saying there's really…" he paused and forced the word out, looking a bit sick. "Magic."

"There has always been magic," Backus said, with a dip of his head. "Before there was humans, there was magic. Like fire, we captured it and put it to use. Like fire, it of course, needs to be controlled."

"Uh huh," Donnelly said, messing with his bottom lip. "That's very poetic. But why weren't we informed of this?"

Backus laughed at him. "It's a private sector, Agent, and honestly, can you imagine releasing to the world that supernatural entities actually exist? Bedlam, Donnelly. There would be mass panic, eventually sparking a religious war, and then your inferior race would be completely destroyed. Which, I'm sure, you can't possibly desire."

"_We're_ the inferior race?" Monroe asked, breathless.

"Yes, ma'am. I'm afraid you are."

"That," Donnelly swallowed. "That means you're a magic person, or whatever…right?"

"The correct term is wizard," Backus corrected him with a patient smile, nodding his head. "A hit wizard as the government calls them. My job is to observe and control national citizens that are witches and wizards and those that cross the pond and into American territory. If needed, I dispose of them."

"Wizard police," Monroe exhaled. "Right."

The hit wizard scratched his chin. "That's us. There are laws to uphold, after all. One of the greatest of our laws was broken today."

He shuffled in his vest and drew out a folder, giving it to Donnelly a bit carelessly. "Henry Christopher Brooks. Crossed over the Atlantic in 1995, and has since then broken eighty-four different wizarding laws."

Donnelly opened the folder, looking at the captured images of Henry Brooks. His eyes widened, "They _move_!" he choked.

"Magic, Donnelly," Backus said as if reminding him, "Magic."

Backus got up as they observed the file and moved over to the coffeemaker, pouring himself a mug. "Brooks has a penchant for using magic in front of NMC," he stopped himself, "that's non-magical citizens to you, but luckily, most NMC exposed are killed moments afterward. When a NMC is exposed to magic, they send people like me to erase memories."

Ignoring the 'erasing memories' bit for the moment, Donnelly exhaled wildly and looked up. "All we were after was McAllister."

"An admirable target, and through no fault of your own did you get caught up in this," he smiled gently.

"Why don't you just detain Brooks if he causes so much trouble?" Monroe queried, and Donnelly tried not to be embarrassed. It wasn't as if she _belonged _to him.

Backus didn't seem to mind the moronic question. "Because we could only deport him, and Britain wants him alive. The American government, however, sees Brooks as an international threat. He's committed, so far, over a hundred counts of first degree murder, with magic and without."

He took a deep draft of his coffee. "At sixteen," he continued. "He is close to the most powerful wizard in the world, and consequently the most dangerous. In Britain, they would brainwash him, use him as a tool, but America doesn't take chances with hazardous powers. The boy could single-handedly bring about the apocalypse, and the U.S. of A, doesn't condone the end of the world."

The pleasant tone, almost as if he were talking about local gossip rather than a threat to national security, coupled with that odd cheerful smile, made Agent Backus quite the creeper. Monroe gulped.

Donnelly had a hard time believing that the young man they'd watched for close to a year could be as dangerous as all that, and well, he honestly had a hard time believing any of it, all things considered. This information went against everything Donnelly had ever known about the world, and he suddenly knew Backus was right. The world wasn't ready for this sort of abrupt shake in its foundations. He had another thought.

"You're being very forthright about this, Agent Backus," he said, suspiciously.

"Do you want help to catch him?" Monroe asked, suddenly pleased and excited.

Backus ignored her blurb, instead finishing off his coffee and staring across the room. "Forthright, that's a good word," he chuckled. "No," and he smiled as he acknowledged them. "The U.S. government can't take any chances, especially with such _dedicated_ Agents as yourselves. I'm ordered to dispose of you."

He might have said, "It's going to be sunny today," for all his tone matched his ominous words. Donnelly gazed at him, his mouth open to protest, but hesitated a moment too long, and suddenly felt as though his entire body had been seized by paralysis.

An experimental shift of his arm told him he was bound tightly, a side-glance at Monroe (for his eyes were quite able to move) told him she was in a similar circumstance. A wooden stick was in her face, and despite the immobility of his body, his heart and brain still seemed to work.

His chest pounded, and he thought, "Well, _fuck._"

_-_-_-_-_-_

Frank McAllister felt the alarm before the tell-tale Ward Globe started to flash. The advanced magic used to shield and secure his house was uniquely cast by Henry, and reliable enough that Frank expected that half of the intruders would be taken out before they could reach the atrium. Not to mention his guardsmen, who would have heard the blaring toll that announced an invasion so Frank wouldn't have to assemble his men. He rotated his chair over to his MagiTech monitor, another beautiful invention by his sometimes lover, and switched the feed to the front of the manor. He recognized Juan Cordero and Jose De Alva Torres's men at his doorstep. They were heavily armed, with Heckler & Koch submachine guns, and…was that a grenade launcher? Frank sat back in his chair and shook his head. Confused as to what would make Cordero and Torres so uppity that they would rashly attack Frank at his home, he saw his guards take position and bit the inside of his lip.

Then the wards fell.

Frank shot up to his feet, his mouth ajar in surprise, as he heard rapid fire and yells from outside, the firefight beginning with little to no preamble.

They had a wizard.

_-_-_-_-_-_

Henry didn't quite know what to think. The obvious slaughter in front of him had very little effect on his stomach, given he was a veteran (and a rather perverse lover) of the sight of such gore. He remained perfectly still at the foot of the bed, the sheets stained red with blood and bodily fluids, the dark blue eyes he knew so well open and glorious in their vacancy. He couldn't guess why he still stood there, frozen, feeling very little in the way of emotions. His body was trembling, he noticed, with adrenaline, and his breath came out in uneven puffs.

He was startled out of his stupor by the sound of a door shutting in the hall, and his feet carried him toward the noise automatically. He opened the door and stepped out; closing it softly behind him.

"You never loved him, Heinrich," a smooth familiar voice told him, and Henry turned around to stare at Janavich Van Rued. "You never loved him despite his love for you. Your heart holds no love for any one."

She stepped forward menacingly. "_I_ loved him. He was a good man."

Henry felt it then, rage, unmitigated pulsing fury, moving through his body like a tidal wave. "You did this?" he asked, barely a whisper.

"No, I did not," and she smiled at him. "Though I hated Oscar for loving a little _whore_ like _you_, my ally had much more to be cross with."

Dex Anibal was behind him, Henry knew, because no one wore the metallic scent of blood so well, like a cologne of death and decay. Henry turned his head and looked at Dex.

"Imagine my surprise," Dex said softly. "When I heard from Jana that McAllister had sold your body to Oscar Van Rued. The betrayal especially poignant given he made the same deal with me," he ran a hand down his blade.

"Frank didn't sell Oscar anything," Henry snapped, and moved sideways so that his back was against the wall. He faced his opponents.

"So it was passion, then?" Dex smiled chillingly. "Lust, or dare I say it…_love_? Just as you loved McAllister, just as you loved me?"

Henry shook his head, laughing lightly. "You assume the best of things, Dex. Frank made a deal with you, and I backed him. Nothing more, nothing less."

His once sort-of partner looked startled at his cruelty, and Henry thought wildly that perhaps this cold-hearted man was hurt by his words. The terrible scowl Dex was famous for spread across his face, and he grinned in that mad way of his. "I'll make you scream with passion, just like _Oscar_, before I kill you."

Henry waved a hand at him.

"And besides," Dex continued, his eyes flashing, "McAllister is being taken over as we speak, your infidelity now means very little."

Henry clenched his teeth.

"I had the pleasure," Jana interrupted, and her focus stones began to glow. "Of speaking with Cordero and Torres these past months. A very formidable team, but in need of some alternative help, you understand."

Jana moved toward him, her jewelry brightly flashing in anticipation of her power. "It is all over now, Heinrich."

"You could always surrender," Dex said with a grin. "I've always wanted a toy."

Dex was suddenly on his other side, unsheathing a beautifully crafted long sword. He felt the magic wrap around Jana's body, ready to strike, the earthly scent of her power manifesting in the air. Dex swung his sword as Jana let loose a blast of light from her hands, and Henry sprung into action.

_-_-_-_-_-_

Not fifteen minutes later, the silvery instrument sitting dusty and unused next to Fawkes's perch suddenly spurted to life. The metal wings beat frantically, the orb in the middle of the two small rings glowing a bright red. Albus Dumbledore jolted in his seat, sitting up swiftly despite his age, and gazed at the trinket; fascinated. It turned from red to viridian, abruptly moving to a calm blue, and settling, finally, on gold.

He jumped from his chair and ran over to the artifact, feeling the pulse of magic spread to the very corners of his office, waking the slumbering portraits and Fawkes who had been peacefully dozing in the early morning sun. Albus didn't dare to hope when it had flashed ruby, for that color meant a certain wayward wizard was using magic, but when the colors began to change, his heart had done a series of acrobatic feats. The instrument throbbed in his hands, a small golden light building in its center point. Gold could only mean one thing, and he risked an excited grin. It meant that Harry Potter was now on a gauge, and that gauge held a degree of power previously unseen in a great many years. It meant, he thought happily as one of the golden tendrils embossed a coordinate into the closest parchment, that he finally had a location on the boy-who-lived.

Albus grabbed up the parchment and raced toward the door, feeling quite full of vim and vigor, and very nearly let out a whoop of triumph.

He grinned_. Got you! _


	4. Chapter Three

A/n: Thank you so much for the feedback! I'm sorry my loves, but I'm going to pull a Tarantino on you. This chapter begins right after Harry is abandoned, and the next ten or so chapters will be his life before the present (chap 1, 2). I know that means I leave you guys hanging for the events in the last chapter, but then the chaps after 22 are dedicated to that plot. It is my hope that you'll get to know the characters more by doing this, namely Harry, lest you be confused as to how he's turned out the way he has. Most of all though, my main reason for channeling Quentin is that it's goddamn fun. I'm having a hell of a time writing this, whoop!

Reviewers: To all of you who got a review and a response from me, I apologize in a advance for any typos, grammatically incorrect sentences, and inane babbling that may or may not include T.M.I. or politics. It's late for me. Fudge: Me too…me too.

Dedication: To Amazonia, for being the coolest friend I've ever had on the east coast, and for patiently dealing with me and this behemoth of a plot. Much love.

Warnings for this chapter: Violence, theft, OC, and mentions of physical abuse.

* * *

Pistol Whipped

Chapter Three

_Nine years earlier_

His body felt heavy and sluggish. A wash of lethargy had hit him the moment they had kicked him out of the alcove, when the cold had been so much worse he wasn't sure there was any heat anywhere, anymore. Harry was scared. The chill made his still sore and broken arm ache something fierce, and the open wounds on his back stung until it went numb, which he knew wasn't necessarily a good thing. His muscles hurt, and his fingers had long since lost its creamy pinkness, replaced with a frightening blue. He had hoped for the kindness of the alcove, but the man had been insistent about bums on his stoop, child or not.

When Harry had taken a trip to the city, a few years ago with his aunt, London had been busy with its magnificence. Harry thought he had never seen anything so fascinating. There were people as well; people everywhere. Driving along in his Uncle's Audi, with clone-like vehicles on either side of them, he had observed the rush of people walking about the streets with familiarity and purpose.

Now that he had spent a week in London, by himself and homeless, the city had lost much of its grandeur. It was crowded there, and a dirty seven-year-old strolling about aimlessly went pretty much unnoticed. It was filthy there, the dirt and soot (which clung to him like a cold sweat) traveled in the air in heavy, dark clouds--a mirror of his mood. It was freezing in London, and Harry knew that the cold meant death, and with it being the beginning of winter, the end of November, he knew he would not last the season. He needed to find some place that was warm.

Newsprint was hard to find in the city, they had long since been collected before the cold had set in, and well before Harry was left there. Leaves had fallen too fast, soaked by rain swiftly, their warmth lost with the wet. Business owners shooed away the homeless from alley overhangs, from trash bins, from the crooks and crannies of the city. Harry found no sanctuary in the people with homes, with fires, no charity from the wealthy gentlemen and debutantes that called London their home. There was not even a sense of camaraderie from the other homeless.

It was every man for himself, and Harry wasn't a man, no matter how hard he tried to be one. He was a little boy, and he was terrifyingly, disturbingly--alone.

He walked past the alley lamplight, kicking about a loose stone, his hands firmly ensconced in the pits of his arms. It did very little to keep them warm.

"Hot, hot," he chanted slowly. "Some place hot. Got to find a place that's hot."

"Oi! You there!"

Harry knew the "holler of the bobby", had come to know their distinct tone from the very first day he was dropped in London. He also knew that if a bobby caught him, he'd be back to the Dursley's right quick. Luckily, bobbies were fast, but Harry was faster.

Filled with a confidence that he wouldn't be rounded up and sent off, Harry slowed to a mild walk as the officer ran up to him.

"What are you doing outside? Where's your parents?"

"Down the road."

"Doin' what, I should like to know?" the officer had a ridiculous mustache that quivered when he spoke. It reminded Harry of his Uncle.

"Sittin' down for supper sir, most likely."

The bobby straightened up, humming a bit indignantly, and Harry tried not to grin. "You've got a lot of cheek, boy. Do they know you're out here?"

"They know," Harry said, nodding. "I'm scrumping."

"_Pardon_?!"

"Scrumping," Harry repeated as if the man were stupid. "For some food. In the bins… and people have holes in their pockets, you know."

The man looked as though Harry had confessed to a tragic, gory murder without an ounce of remorse. "That's stealing, that is."

"Not when you're poor," he pointed out, and sighed. "Me ma'am works day and night, me da' too, just to make things a bit better for me. It's not stealing because they've forgotten the holes in their pockets, and we haven't forgotten we're poor."

"I suppose that makes sense," the bobby admitted, scratching at his beard and frowning. He started out of his evaluation of Harry's logic and gestured to him with his baton. "Go on, then. Go home. Tell your parents they can half inch themselves, and not to send their children to do it. I've a right mind to tell them me self."

"Yessir, thank you, sir," and he made off down the alley without further harassment.

When he was clear of the patrolling officer, Harry started to laugh, aware for the first time that bobbies were preposterously easy to fool, and that with a few sympathetic pleas and a pretty face, he would likely be able to get out of any sort of trouble from then on. Quite pleased with himself, Harry decided to go south; perhaps there would be warmer places to kip there. Yes, he nodded, it was about time to relocate.

.o00o.

"I'll not have you looking like a beggar!" Mrs. Weasley complained. "You've a place to stay and warm meals. What do you mean by looking so filthy?!"

"_Nothin'_ ma'am," Ron said tiredly, quite sullen because as the youngest of his brothers, his mum was very particular about his cleanliness, where she had apparently failed with the rest. Especially behind the ears, where his mother was, at present, scrubbing fiercely. "Ouch! _Mum_!"

"Oh, I am sorry, Ronald," she shook her head. "You're just so _dirty_! Have you been rolling in the mud, again?"

"Mum!" a strangled yell traveled down the hall outside the loo, assaulting Ron's sensitive ears. "_Mum_! Mummy!"

Mrs. Weasley clucked her tongue at the noise. "Ginny, stop that caterwauling!" and Ron grimaced and tried to take his head away.

His sister came running into the washroom, tears running down her red face, and latched onto her mother's arm, hanging off of it and crying. "They won't stop. They've done it again!"

Ron finally noticed that Ginny's hair was an outrageous violet, and he started to laugh. His mother hit him over the head with the wet rag she had cleaned his ears with. "Ronald!"

Ginny began to sob. "I _don't like _violet! Take it off, mum. Take it off!"

Mrs. Weasley lifted Ron out of the bath and wrapped him in a towel. She went over to Ginny and picked her up, and when Ron could see her little head over his mum's shoulder he made a show of pointing and laughing at her silently. Ginny yowled.

"Fred! George!" she hollered, patting Ginny softly and moving into the hall. Ron toddled after her before he felt one of the twins come up behind him and was lifted into the air and slung underneath an arm.

"Argh!"

"Put him down! Put him down!" his mother yelled over Ginny's howling.

"What's all the noise? Ah!" Percy tried to push George off of him with little success.

"Mum! _Mum_!"

"Hey!"

"I _don't like _violet!"

"Ah, stop!"

"Ron, why are you starkers?"

.o00o.

After a long day at work, Arthur Weasley enjoyed coming home to a house full of children. Molly would have them calmed and quieted by then, always aware that Arthur needed the peace at home, because work remained a flurry of pushy ministry workers and general calamity. He enjoyed his time at home more than anything, more than the perk of the various treasures he managed to pilfer from the office. He had brought home a teapot that sang Christmas carols as water was boiled today, and a long funny looking rope that was, oddly enough, called a plug. Muggle devices had such charm (no pun intended, really) that Arthur couldn't help but horde the items that crossed his path.

A shed full of these artifacts proved his intrigue when it came to anything muggle. Unfortunately, Molly was cross with him when he brought some new contraption home, within good reason, so he hid them as best he could in the back of the burrow. Arthur disliked being untruthful to his wife, but he knew that she knew what was in the shed, anyway, and allowed him if only because she was his, and what he liked she tried her best to tolerate.

He wrapped the cord up carefully, the teapot underneath one arm, and opened the shed to put his new treasures somewhere safe.

Arthur Weasley certainly didn't expect to see a boy curled up next to his collection of discarded car batteries. Not at all.

.o00o.

"Where did you, what is that…_Merlin_!"

"He's near freezing, Molls, get the sofa ready with some blankets."

"Who is it dad?"

"Is it a gnome? It's small enough to be a gnome! What's wrong with it?"

"It's not a gnome, stupid, it's got too long legs!"

"I was only _asking_!"

"Don't be stupid!"

Arthur set the boy down on the couch as his wife came in with a bundle of spare quilts. He cast a heating charm before laying the heavy duvet atop the slightly blue body, and turned to look at Molly, distressed.

"That poor dear!" she said, very near tears, and she tucked the corners in around him.

"He was in the shed," Arthur explained, frowning.

His children crowded around the sleeping boy, Fred going so far as to poke him. "He's not dead is he?"

Molly swatted his hand away as Arthur shook his head, moving over to his chair and finally sitting down with a sigh. The fire roared back to life, thanks to a quick _incendio_ from his wife, and he felt the heat rise quickly.

"Does he belong to anyone?" Percy asked, looking casual in comparison to the alarm.

"Oh, the poor dear's probably homeless!" Molly gushed, and a few tears made their way to the edges of her eyes. "Poor dear. Poor child!"

Ron looked at the kid's dirty clothes, nearly black face (with soot and mud no doubt) and his matted hair, and made a face. "He's _filthy_! Does he have a home, then?"

His dad sighed. "I don't think so, Ronnie," he glanced at his wife. "Why don't you kids go up to your rooms. Your mother and I will be up in a moment."

With much complaining and shoving, they marched up the steps and Arthur didn't speak until the doors slammed shut. He turned to Molly.

"What do we do?"

She glanced at him, from her position beside the bundled up boy, and her gaze was a bit menacing.

"Why, he'll stay here, of course."

"But what if someone's looking for him, Molls? What if he's got a family and he's just gotten lost…."

"Look at him, Arthur!" she snapped, fiercely. "He's in a terrible state. No family with the intention of caring for a child would let him get to such a condition."

He had to admit to himself that it seemed very likely the boy was unwanted at home, if he had a home at all. Judging by the fading bruise on the boy's face, Arthur suspected he was a runaway, and probably a muggle.

"But, Molls, we can't…" but he cut himself off, and she knew what he meant anyway.

"One more won't hurt," despite it, she looked unsure.

"Wheremat?"

Molly jumped about a foot in the air and shot towards the boy, who had awoken quite confused. Arthur sat forward as well, and found himself staring into the greenest eyes he had ever seen.

"Hello, dear," Molly said gently, smoothing the blankets that kept the boy warm. "Where are your parents?"

The boy blinked a few times, his wary, brilliant eyes searching Molly and Arthur quickly. He frowned. "Dead, ma'am."

His wife looked as if she were going to start crying again, so Arthur cut in with a smile he would have given a wild (though harmless) animal. "Found you in the shed, near frozen," he said, and the boy suddenly observed him rather knowingly. "Do you have a home?"

"I lived in London for a while," the mite responded sagely. "But it was too cold there."

Seeming disappointed, Molly prodded kindly, "Is that where your family lives, dear?"

That matted mop of pitch black hair shook back and forth in a negative. "I've no family, ma'am."

Arthur couldn't help but feel terrible for this child, and one glance at Molly told him she would be keeping the boy as long as he would stay. He resigned himself, but not unhappily, to harboring their new guest.

"What's your name, then?" Molly asked, smiling. "Your age, perhaps?"

The boy seemed to be lost in thought, and when he realized Molly had spoken, he turned back to her with a polite, "Pardon?"

"So polite," Molly murmured. "What's your name then? Age?" she repeated.

"I'm seven," he said, whispering. "Me name's Christopher. Chris."

Molly grinned at him, tucking in the corners of the blanket that had loosened. "Now, I have to say, that is a lovely name, indeed."

.o00o.

The Weasley children got on with Christopher grandly. Fred and George took a particular liking to the boy, though Chris refused to play pranks on their little sister, if only so she wouldn't cry so much. Ron trudged about with the new person that wasn't one of his brothers, commonly playing outside when Molly had to use magic inside of the house. It was assumed that Chris was muggle, and though Fred and George asked him a million questions about muggle things, Chris never seemed to think it odd. He was a wonderful best mate (as Ron proclaimed loudly after an hour with the boy), and always let him be the knight while Chris resigned himself, not unhappily, to be the dragon. He was also a fast learner when it came to chess (they brought out a dingy old set that didn't move), and to Ron it was obviously destiny that Chris had been found in his father's shed.

Once Molly had cleaned the boy up a bit, he looked near presentable, though his long overgrown hair fell into his face much like a dog's would. Molly had tried to persuade Chris to let her cut it, but he insisted it kept him warm, and that had made her upset all over again, and she decided not to push the matter.

Molly and Arthur embraced Chris without hesitation. He was never-endingly polite, did more chores than all of their children combined, and always thanked Molly after every meal. Arthur found a plethora of interesting muggle facts in the lad, and Molly got a loyal and hardworking child (a sure difference) helping around the house.

Soon it was, "Why can't you be more like Christopher!? He's such a dear and you're all heathens!" Which was a right side better than, "Percy does his chores, and is always amenable. Why can't you be more like Percy?"

There was no bitterness in the children, because they understood that while Percy was just as good as the rest of them, on equal footing, at least, Chris had considerably different and despairing circumstances.

"What does homeless mean?" Ginny asked of her father one day--tactfully while Chris was outside with Ron.

Arthur put his paper down slowly and observed his only daughter. "It means you don't have a home, Gin."

"No brothers or sisters?" her eyes were wide, and Arthur wondered how much of his explanation she would be able to understand.

"No, dear."

"No_ mum _or_ dad_?"

Arthur responded sadly, "No, Gin. No mum or dad or brothers or sisters. It means you haven't got a home. Not like ours."

Ginny thought about what he had said for rather a long time, and then two days later strolled up to her father and said, very matter-of-factly, "We've got a good home."

That they did, and apparently Ginny's announcement spread to the other children, and they too felt humbled. Not once did they indulge in any jealousy when Chris got a few better-looking but still hand-me-down shirts, or second helpings, or an extra blanket placed on his bed at night.

They did pity him for their mother's enthusiasm though.

"I'll not have you looking like a beggar!" Mrs. Weasley would say. "You've a place to stay and warm meals. What do you mean by looking so filthy?"

Chris would laugh. "Nothing ma'am," and then he would spot Ron outside of the door making faces as Chris's ears were cleaned thoroughly. "Ron's a bit dirty too, ma'am."

"Ron!"

Chris was a lovely addition to the family, and when Bill and Charlie came home for Christmas, they seemed surprised by his initiation, but not at all inconvenienced. Though the extra sickle every month, especially during the holiday, pulled the books a bit taut, the Weasley's didn't mind so much when they saw their family welcome Chris with open arms. He even got a blue jumper with a dragon on it for Christmas.

Once winter had passed, with Bill and Charlie returning to school, the cold had been reduced to a manageable chill. There came the morning when Chris hadn't come down for breakfast, and Molly had found his bed empty, his borrowed clothes folded neatly atop his blankets. Chris had left an apple on his pillow, that he had scrumped from the orchard down the road, and Mrs. Weasley had sobbed heavily for close to an hour after her discovery. Predictably, despite Molly's ardent denial, Chris had left when the dawn had whispered of spring.

.o00o.

Harry had thought of the name instantly, upon first sight of the inside of the Weasley's home. Everything had been furnished in warm reds and greens, and it had smelled of spicy cinnamon and the peppermints Mr. Weasley chewed on. It had reminded him of Christmas, and he thought ill of saying his name was 'Christ' and his memory had helpfully provided the name by way of a boy in primary who had gone by the moniker. His classmate, at the time, had told Harry he was labeled after the holiday, and Harry had told him it was a stupid thing to call someone after, which had led to a brawl and Harry's reluctant admittance that he quite liked the name _Christopher_.

There were very few things Harry feared. Once he had been on the streets for a time, the frightening circumstances he found himself in only waned as the days went by. Survival took precedence over his fear, and most of the bumps in the night he had fantasized about in his creepy cupboard, were replaced by the harsh truth of reality. One of his new fears were for policemen. He knew that if he were found by them, they would take him back to the Dursley's, force them to house him, and ultimately make Harry's life _worse _than it had ever been before. He never wanted to go back.

The other, a terrible aching fright, was for families. In his limited experience, families were unkind and painful. He avoided them like the plague, knowing that the Dursley's were not the only people to treat their kin in such a way. The Weasley's though….

He knew in his heart that he had been lucky to be caught by such a kind family, and hated to leave the warmth of Mrs. Wealey's hugs and the taste of her wonderful steak and kidney pie (a true winter comfort). Mr. Weasley hadn't even made him feel unnerved, what with his gentle and soothing demeanor, and the rambunctious household seemed apropos rather than frightening or obnoxious. All and all, it had been a wonderful Christmas, spent with kind people (a new experience for Harry), and endless warmth. Harry did, however, know quite a bit about outstaying his welcome, and his feet had carried him on once more. Back to London.

At this time of year, the city was busy, and Harry found it was all too easy to blend in with the day-trippers and vacationers. Which meant holes in pockets and scrumping, in a distinctly more illegal way than what he had told the bobby before his stay in Devon. Pick-pocketing was rather trouble-free, if one knew how to do it right. Harry had immediately found a hiding spot for spring, as well, a good one too, he was of the opinion. It still got nippy at night, but not so bad as the winter had been. His alcove shielded him from the mild freeze, and hid him from London's law enforcement quite well.

He would usually have to make up a story or run, if caught, but grew tired of doing so, especially after an encounter on Piccadilly a few nights ago. The bobbies circled the circus relentlessly, and they had caught wind of a pick-pocket making rounds and had gone searching through the crowd for the offender. Harry had had to run then, and when he'd gotten away, he'd decided to find a hide out close to the edge of the city. He ended up outside of a police station on Newcourt, where he saw the perfect overhang to sleep beneath. It was in the alley beside the building, on a stoop with a back door that the constables never used. Harry couldn't believe his luck, really. It was facing the back wall, and almost invisible to the passerby.

Carefully, he made sure the place was as clever as it seemed, not wanting to be stupid about it considering he was squatting on government property, and he was rather gleeful upon the realization that the door lead to a forgotten storage room, complete with small steps for him to sleep upon.

He got a real kick out of being on bobby acreage every night, but it wore off soon when he decided to map out the best places for food and profit. There were quite a few trash bins around, that tourists and locals alike used to throw away half-eaten meals, and St. John's Tube station wasn't too far away, which allowed for some passable pick-pocketing. It was a wealthy set up, surely, and Harry thought he was quite settled for spring, until summer came around and the tourists would lure him back to Piccadilly.

Unfortunately, a like-minded fellow had had the same idea.

Harry saw the man in his spot one late night, having just returned from a local bakery that threw away the day's bread after it closed, and he'd been scrounging and eating his fill for the last hour. He was blessedly thanking humanity for their wastefulness, when the he had caught sight of a tell-tale lump on his stoop. Harry didn't know why, but he had seen red and shook with fury at the thieving of his hideout. Harry stormed over to the man and kicked him awake.

"Oi!"

Muffled grunting reached his ears, and a skinny, tall (two-times Harry's size, at least) and scruffy man quickly got to his feet. "Whatcha' want? Eh, whatcha' want?"

He was so wide-eyed and fidgety that Harry new he was wasted. Harry hated people like this, they didn't watch themselves, didn't know where they were half the time, and while Harry's poverty was involuntary, wasted people simply, _royally_ botched their lives. They couldn't pick-pocket, and frequently got caught in the hot spots of London, which put the homeless like Harry in danger, because bobbies were of the opinion that they all were like-minded. A bit like ants, in the belief that where one was, others were bound to be as well. Harry looked at this man, and hated him so fiercely his hands curled into fists and his body shook.

"That's me spot, mate," his teeth were grinding together painfully. "You're in me spot."

"What?" the bum said, and he shook his greasy hair out of his face. "It don't belong to you, as fer as I see, I can stay 'ere if I want."

Harry's jaw tightened. "It's me spot. I kip 'ere at night. You'd best be getting on, you understand."

"Nah," and the man straightened to his full height. "Think you've got it wrong there, mate. Methinks there's room for one more though," and he grinned lecherously, showing a set of rotten teeth, moving his body forward as if to grab him.

Harry lost it completely. An overwhelming heat spread through his body, consuming him from the bottoms of his feet to the very tip of his fly-away hair. His clothes burned to ash, the fire somehow chill against his skin, and there was screaming for a long time, and he knew it wasn't him, and then there was silence.

He came to himself just as the fire fled, the blanket the bum had been using still smoking, but intact. Harry looked at the charred remains in interest.

"Blimey," and he laughed. "What the fuck just happened?"

It was a pity really, because Harry would have to find new clothes, and he settled for wrapping the throw around himself for the time being. He had also quite liked that spot, and now he would really have to leave. Someone was bound to have heard the screaming.

.o00o.

He waited until the last days of fall to consider his options. Summer had been fruitful, the tourists had flocked to coastal areas to escape the abnormally hot English summer, and Harry had followed. He had never been to the coast before, and found it to be a beautiful and carefree environment, partially due to the lack of police. The private villages had little need for the constables, and Harry felt freer there than he'd ever felt in London. Since spring, when he had accidentally roasted the poor homeless bloke, Harry had found a supreme delight in experimenting with his new tricks.

If he could trick fire, then winter wouldn't be too harsh, but fires were noticeable, especially in the country, and he was back to square one again. He had scouted out the tube station in the hopes it would be adequate shelter come winter, but bobbies had been all over the place, principally after hours, and took the Mickey out of any lawless person dumb enough to kip there. He had wanted to stay on the coast longer, but since the tourists had left, the money had gone scarce as well, and in consequence, his supply of food. During his stay, it was easy enough to dig through bins for left-over meals, the pick-pocketing had been a fanfare, and he had found concealment in the crowds with little need for subtlety. The coast was now barren, and Harry went back to London.

He didn't dare return to Newcourt, but held out in the slums for a time before the winter came. Which brought about another incident with the locals.

Street gangs weren't very popular in the richer side of the city, but in the slums they did exist. Usually they were contrived of wayward teenagers looking for an extra pound in mugging people and thieving cars. Harry had seen them on Piccadilly for a time, before the intelligent lads had realized the bobbies swarmed the place, and had moved their squadron elsewhere. Apparently, it was the slums, and as Harry was going back to his hiding spot beneath a tunnel one night, he saw them hovering about an expensive looking auto with crowbars and blades. Harry sighed.

His footsteps were loud, and their eyes followed him as he walked past.

"Hallo, little mate, where d'you think you're going?"

Harry turned to them, resigned, and watched as they stalked forward with excited amusement. "Going home to _mummy_, little bit?"

Scowling, Harry rolled his eyes with a flourish. "Do I look like I've got a mummy, mate?"

They finally seemed to notice his attire, a dirty hooded jumper that was thick with layers of shirts beneath it, torn and too-big jeans, and sneaks that had seen a better century. The most talkative one, most likely the leader of the gang, glared at him in what he thought was an intimidating way.

"This is out territory, kiddo."

Harry looked about himself sarcastically. "The entire road or just the walk?" he waved a hand around.

"Don't get cheeky," said another. "You know what guys like us do to little cheeks like you?"

"I'm assuming something involving a crowbar and a knife," Harry said. "Perhaps you beat them to death and then cut them up into little pieces."

The leader grinned. "He catches on fast, don't he?" The others laughed, and Harry turned his back and began to walk away.

"Oi, little mate, we aren't done with you!" an arm clasped him across his shoulders and Harry immediately pushed it off roughly.

"Fast, ain't you?" there was laughter, and they reached for him again.

Harry stepped back and a resounding, tell-tale _snick!_ rang out into the night. He held his blade at his side.

"Whoa," the teen said, scrambling backward. "That's quite a shank you got on you, kid."

"Innit?" Harry smiled, watching as the switch shined in the low lamplight. "I quite like me self."

"Alright," and another boy stepped forward. "We don't want any trouble."

"It sure seemed like you did, though I might've been mistaken."

"Listen, mate, there's five of us and one of you. Do you really want to have a go?"

The teen didn't seem nervous now that he was away from the knife, and his eyes were dark with humor as he looked down at Harry imperiously. A sinister smile made it's way across Harry's face, and he did nothing to hide it.

"Do you know what kids like me do to thugs like you?" he asked.

The _snick!_ of multiple blades unsheathing echoed in the cool night air, and Harry resigned himself to one more incident on his personal record.

"Mate…" the boy began, but Harry cut him off.

"You don't catch on fast, do you?"

The fire let loose, and Harry moved forward.

.o00o.

A rather large parcel lay on his back, heavy until he had experimented with his tricks and had rendered it considerably lighter and smaller. Inside was what Harry called a good haul: a car battery he had stolen from an Audi, a chess set in glass he had paid for, a radio, a bag of funny disguises, a stuffed bear, and a pretty necklace with a ruby encrusted heart on it (only £20), all shoved in a small backpack. He had stolen a book on the historical passageways of London, a gold watch, and an intricately woven beanie all in one day; adding to his collection. The others had taken some time to purchase or steal, but it hadn't been a hassle at all. Though he had had to cut back on food for a month, and pick-pocket a bit more than usual, his efforts had not been in vain. Harry now had Christmas presents, and for the first time in his life--people to give them to.

Ottery St. Catchpole didn't take long to get to, after taking the tube and the train, and walking through the isolated villages of Devon. When the Weasley home came in sight, he felt his feet move a bit faster, the winter cold biting at his heels, and a genuine smile lit his face. He could hear the family's goings on from outside, could smell the buttered bread and hot soup, and he thought he might have even been able to taste it. He felt the memory of the warmth from the fire and fancied he could already hear the merry laughter.

Harry was hesitant to return without any sort of gift, and didn't want the good family to think he was taking advantage of their hospitality. Sure, the main purpose for returning was because of the cold, but underneath it all, Harry sincerely liked the Weasley's very much. It was his idea of how his family would have been had he ever had one.

Smiling at the scent of peppermint and sweets, Harry knocked on the door. It took a quite a while before someone came to answer him, and the face that poked out of the door hang looked a trifle confused. Harry gave him a shy grin.

"Chris!" and Mr. Weasley opened the door all the way. "Bless my soul, come in, come in!"

"Who is it, Arthur? Chrissie? _Chrissie_?!

His welcome was more than he had ever had the weakness to hope for.

.o00o.

Chris spent the winter holiday with the Weasley's, warm and happy and carefree. The companionship he had shared with Ron continued as if there were never an interval, and Fred and George wreaked havoc per usual, only stepping up the volatility of the pranks since Chris had arrived. His Christmas presents were well received. Mrs. Weasley had just about burst into tears when he had given her the necklace, had put it on right away, and Chris had smiled at her and said, "I went and bought that, ma'am, so you aren't worried."

She really did cry then, and Arthur patted her on the back sadly. Mr. Weasley had relished his car battery with a ridiculous amount of happiness, even though they all knew Chris had no idea why the man collected them. Percy had long since disappeared into his book, Ron and he had played a game of chess with his new set, and Fred and George had worn the beards and mustaches for a solid week until Mrs. Weasley had told them they smelled.

Ginny had blushed and beamed at her Paddington bear. "Thank you, Chris," and there was nary a time when she didn't have it crushed beneath her arm. The gold watch had gone to Bill, who wore it the entire holiday, and the beanie to Charlie, who wore it just as much as Fred and George did their facial adornments.

Chris loved being with the Weasley's, their innocent jubilation over trivial things so refreshing Chris often thought of staying for good. The kindness they bestowed upon him was unprecedented in his short life, and Chris found he was at his happiest there.

After the holiday had passed, and the New Year had rolled over, Mrs. Weasley began to look rather sad all the time that Chris was around.

She often said things like, "Chrissie, dear, come summer we had best cut this hair," and, "A new home now, Chrissie, that's got to sound promising for the new year," or, "What's an extra mouth to feed when you're my entire workforce, Chris? Fred, George, are you _listening_?!"

Despite her supposedly subtle desire that Chris stay, he knew that after the cold had gone, he would be off and returning to the city. Not because he disliked the family (far from it) and not because he much preferred living on the streets. Chris would leave because he knew kindness had a price, and the Weasley's could not afford to keep him. He could not afford to love them, stay with them, when he had blood on his hands and an indifferent acceptance of his sins. His eventual arrest, for no crime (to him) went unpunished, would break Mrs. Wealey's heart, and Chris cared very much about the kindly, frequently put-upon woman.

When the time came for him to leave, Ron seemed to sense his departure the night before it happened, "You're going again, aren't you?" he asked, and Chris looked at him levelly. "I know because you left around this time last year. When it got warmer."

"Spring will come in a few months," Chris told him, softly. He didn't expect his normally unconcerned best mate to get angry.

"So that's all, then?" he nearly yelled. "You only show up when it's _cold_ and you need a place stay?"

Chris had such a downtrodden expression on his face that Ron's anger suddenly deflated. "I don't know why you don't just stay with us. All the time, I mean."

"It's not just shelter, you know," he spoke after a short silence. "I-I love being here. It's my favorite place in the whole world, honestly. But, Ron, I can't be a burden to your mum and dad, even if before it was about getting out of the cold, I came back this year because I wanted to, not because I had to."

"Mum wouldn't mind," Ron protested. "Mum and dad want you here, you know. We all do. You're my best mate, and the best brother _I've_ _ever_ had, Chrissie."

_That's not even my name. _

"Not Percy, then?" Chris teased, laughing. Ron pushed him lightly in return.

"Nah, mate," and then he seemed very distraught. "You wouldn't be a bother, Chris. Not at all, and well, dad says it's dangerous on the streets. You know he walked about London looking for you last year?"

He felt guilty then, and the blood rushed to his face. "Did he?" he said weakly.

"Yeah. Mum insisted, but I think he would have done it without her pecking."

Chris looked down at his crossed hands, feeling the warmth beneath his skin, thankful they _were_ warm, and not numb with cold.

"It is dangerous," Chris admitted to him. "Very dangerous." Ron came across stricken, so he said, "But listen, mate, I can handle my own. I'm a fair fighter, and you know I'm a master at scrumping. You don't have to worry about me."

His best friend scowled. "How could we not, _stupid_?"

"You don't have to worry," he repeated, and then smiled and plucked his sweater pompously. "I've got a Weasley jumper that'll fight off any wintry storm, you see."

He left the pounds he had saved from the past year on top of his made bed, along with an apple and the borrowed clothes, and left bright the next morning. He refused to acknowledge the pain in his chest as he walked down the road and away from the countryside.

.o00o.

The first time Harry met Denny Brooks was at the Claridge's Mayfair Hotel, in London. Denny was a visitor to the city, coming from Aberdeen for the spring, and was there to attend some sort of meeting in the slums. The man was partial to fancy hotels, rather than staying closer to the area he intended to go, which was a logical luxury, considering the state of the inns on the poorer side of the city. Harry, himself, had an equally reasonable (if not supremely devious) reason for being at Claridge's that day. Hotels, after all, were Harry's new bread winner.

Not only did visitors leave left over meals outside their rooms, for service to pick up, but the maids had a bad habit of leaving doors ajar. Harry found the best things in those open suites; wallets, jewelry, portraits and watches, and other miscellaneous and sellable items. Most of the things he obtained from the hotel were liquid, though some had other uses. Including quite a few articles of clothing that Harry commandeered for next winter, and a mobile phone that he had an inkling Mr. Weasley would love.

His stint at hotels only lasted until the staff grew suspicious. Harry never stayed long at one ritzy piece, and usually chose the busy ones for the inconspicuousness of a boy running about the place. Encounters with maids were frequent, but being eight had its advantages. Very few people suspected a sobbing 'lost' little kid of trickery.

Harry was at the hotel for the mass of tourists and businessmen that had come to London, their holiday soon to be marred by thieves and intelligent survivalists like himself. He was awful proud of his talent for scrumping, and often times thought himself a trifle grand. That is, until he stole from the wrong man, and that man happened to be Denny Brooks.

While doing his usual rounds of pinching from open rooms, he had come upon a supposed jackpot. One of the suites on the top most floor was accessible, and with no maid in sight! It meant that Harry had very little time to run in and assess the assets, but he wouldn't pass up the chance for the world. Suites were notoriously stock full of goods, the wealthy carrying ridiculous amounts of expensive luxuries with them on holiday. Harry opened the door just enough to slip in, and quietly made his way into the empty suite. It looked like the guest had left in a hurry, and that the maid hadn't been in yet.

He searched the nightstand quickly, coming up with nothing, and then turned to the luggage that sat on one of the large oak desks. There, he a found a silver pocket watch, a yellow envelope, and a key. He put the watch in his pocket, chucked the key back on the suitcase, and opened the envelope.

A considerable amount of money came out. Harry gaped at the pounds wrapped up in denominations, unable to imagine how much he held in his hands. He shook himself from his shock and grinned, hastily shoving the money into his pockets. Feeling immensely pleased with himself, he hopped about the room some, though as quietly as he could, and moved to look into another drawer.

The sound of a door shutting made him freeze. Footsteps came into the hall, and Harry frantically looked for a place to hide. He dove underneath the unmade bed, the sprawled covers shielding his feet from vision, and cussed rather crassly inside of his head. The steps stopped, and Harry tried not to breath too loudly. Hands grabbed his ankles and pulled.

"_Bollocks_! Come out from under there!"

Harry went with the pulling, knowing very well what sort of injuries that could happen should he resist. The man, who Harry only got a glimpse of once he was wrenched out from under the bed, was tall and menacing looking. His dark hair fell into his eyes, which were a startling blue, his frown framed by a handsome dark mustache, that suited his sinewy form. Harry swallowed, his stare wide, as he was pulled into standing, the man's hands grasping at his shoulders hard enough to bruise.

"What do you think…" the Scottish brogue sounded rough and rich, and mixed with those furious blue eyes, Harry found himself more frightened than he had been in a long time. "You're a kid," and the ire suddenly faded into… amusement?

The clutch on his arms loosed almost completely, and Harry took his chance. He kicked the man in the leg, hard enough that he doubled over as his knee gave out, and made to sprint for the door. Arms grabbed him around the waist, and he wriggled out of them quickly. Caught again, after a particularly powerful tug to his wrist, the man held him so hard Harry knew he wouldn't be able to escape.

"Lemme go! Lemme go!"

"Why were you in my room!?"

"I was lost, so gerroff! I thought this was _my room_!"

"You're a ridiculous liar," and he was dragged toward the desk and into a chair. Harry jumped up the moment he was down, and the man shoved him again. He breathed in deeply, his back ram-rod straight in the chair, and watched the panting man in front of him crossly.

"Fuck," the man leaned over to rub at his leg. "You're strong for a midget, I'll say."

"I'm _not_ a midget!" Harry denied, shouting. His fear suddenly mastered, he sat up and glared. "You had better let me go, mate. Me dad will come for me and he'll break your bloody face."

"You haven't any dad," the man said with a short, grunting laugh. "And if you did your dad wouldn't want to have a go with the likes of me."

Harry was put off by the rebuff, a bit offended that the man could be so callous, and bewildered at how he knew Harry hadn't a guardian. He could admit he looked worse for wear, but it wasn't as bad as when he _did_ have guardians. He could just be neglected. The man seemed to notice his expression, and he sat down on the bed in front of his prisoner and grinned. His mustache moved with the motion.

"You're a street kid, the accent gives you away," he explained casually, having caught his breath.

"Fucking _blighter_!" Harry cursed him.

"And the language," he responded quite cheerfully. "What's your name kid?"

Harry bit his lip, and refused to answer.

"Don't feel like cooperating? Considering I caught you light-fingered in my rooms, boy?"

"I wasn't!"

"You weren't, eh?" the man fixed his extreme stare on Harry, and he felt the fear rise up again.

This man, who had caught him, had a look that frightened Harry terribly. Bottomless pale blue, like the ocean, unmarred by hesitance and morality. Harry knew that this man was very, very bad, and that he was in for a world of hurting. The weight of the money in his pockets grew heavier, and Harry gulped. He felt the shank in his jacket, the power at his fingertips, knowing he could call upon either to get him out of this mess.

"Empty your pockets, kid," the man demanded, and Harry clenched his jaw and didn't move.

His captor got impatient, and reached inside his duffel coat as Harry tensed. The metal of the gun shown in the afternoon sunlight, glistening its deadly power, and all at once it made Harry want and hate the thing.

"Do you know what this is?" and he showed the gun to Harry without pointing it at him.

"It's a gun," his voice was soft in awe, and then stronger, "I'm not stupid," Harry snapped, and the man chuckled.

"You're either daft as a brush or just an ugly sort of brave, kid," the gun came to rest on the man's jean-clad thigh. "It's a M1911, semi-automatic pistol. A Colt .45."

Harry watched as he fiddled with the weapon. "American bloke invented it. It has a seven round magazine, and even though she's a tick old," he lifted a shoulder. "Handles well," he chucked, "Bobbies and gov's like to use 'em when they're going after blokes like me. I prefer a Desert Eagle .50, to get me point across, but this'll do. Those are hard to get a hold of, round here."

He leaned forward, the gun sideways and his elbow on his thighs. "I took this beauty from a bobby a few years ago. Do you like it?"

Harry didn't miss the underlying threat, or the insinuation that the man was most likely a criminal. His eyes, however, were on the pistol. "Yeah," he said breathlessly. "I do."

"What's your name, then?"

This man wasn't a bobby, obviously, and had no problem with killing a helpless kid like him. Harry weighed his options; it would be unlikely that this man would turn him in to the police, and all the more likely he would shoot Harry if he so much as even thought of lying again. The truth, then, would have to do.

"Harry," he said.

"Harry," he repeated, leaning back. "You're a Henry, then."

"No," Harry tore his gaze away from the pistol, only just. "It's Harry."

"Henry it is then," and that terrible smile returned. "Empty your pockets."

Again, Harry didn't move. The barrel of the gun was suddenly in his face.

"_Empty_. _Your_. _Pockets_," he tilted his head to the side. "Please."

Harry did so, taking out various jewelry he had gotten from the other rooms, a few pound notes, and the silver watch that belonged to the man. He held out his hand, and Harry placed the items in it, scowling darkly.

"There's more, lad," he pushed when Harry acted as though he had nothing else.

Harry struck out, shoving the gun away from his face, his knife already out and swiftly slashing at the man. Blood emerged from his captor's cheek, and Harry went for him again. The man abandoned the gun on the bed and grabbed Harry's wrist, twisting. Harry found himself turned around, and he let go of the switch and went with the man's movement, slithering out of the clasp.

Fire curled at his fingertips, and Harry attacked with a rush of flame that just barely missed the man's face. The second attack hit the man square in the chest, blood soaking into his shirt and jacket, and far from staying down as most did, he was back up in a second and _charging_ at Harry.

He didn't have time to summon the rage, _the fire_, as too much fear blocked him, and then the man had him pushed up against the desk so harshly his hips felt as if they had crumbled. Harry cried out and delivered a punch to the man's jaw, feeling the desperate power within him strengthen with the force, and the man hit the bed and rolled. Harry suddenly saw the pistol on its side, close to where the man was trying very hard to get back up, and he dove for it.

His fingers had barely skimmed the metal before he was swung around by his arm, the gun wrenched out of his hand and raised to his temple. The man brought it down and the butt smacked Harry in the back of the head with dull thud.

"Ow! _You_…"

"Pistol whip you again if you're gonna fight!"

They both breathed heavily, Harry's heart racing like a rabbits, as the grip moved to his waist and tightened. Harry reached up to rub his sore head.

"Jesus Christ," the man groused, and he sounded pained and tired. "You're one fucking loony kid!" He turned Harry around and the gun moved directly to his forehead. "Should I just end your miserable existence right here, Henry?"

His voice went down to a whisper, and now the man was angry. "Should I put a bullet through your fucking head and leave you for the maids to clean up?"

Harry swallowed, his body shaking but his eyes remained defiant, he leaned forward and said to the man, directly into his face, "Go ahead and do it, you _berk_."

He looked taken aback by Harry's biting insult, his gun still aimed for between the boy's eyes, and then his lips quivered, and he began to laugh.

"You're one hell of a kid, kid!" and his guffaw was loud and boisterous. "Ha! What the bloody fuck…" he doubled over, the gun away from Harry, finally, and wrapped his arms around his waist. "You're…" he wheezed. "Too bloody _funny_ to kill!"

While the man seemed to get immense amusement out of the entire ordeal, Harry was less inclined to join in. Feeling his pride slightly wounded, and his face turning down into a pout, he crossed his arms and waited for the bloke to sober. When he did, it was all at once, and Harry flinched.

"Here, you little fuck," he said, and tossed something at him. Harry caught it out of reflex. "Take it."

It was a roll of wrapped pounds. Harry wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth, and started to shuffle toward the door, the man still chuckling in short, panting spurts.

"Hold it there, Henry," and the pistol was back in his face. "Sit the fuck down, won't you?"

"I've got to go," he objected, weakly. "You can't keep me here."

"Grateful, aren't you?" the man waved the pistol at the bed, "_Now_. Please," and Harry gave in with a slump of his shoulders, lowering his arms that had previously been busy coveting his prize so that he could slouch his way over. Once Harry was seated, the man smiled pleasantly at him, but didn't lower the weapon.

"Let's try this without you getting your knickers in a twist, eh?"

Harry said nothing, his sweaty hands holding the money in a death grip.

"You're one hell of a fighter, you know," and he seemed sincere as he touched a hand to his wounded chest and face. "What was with the fire thing? You've singed the curtains." He motioned towards them with the gun.

Harry shrugged. "Magic tricks."

"Magic, huh?" two dark eyebrows rose. "I wouldn't believe it if you hadn't thrown a ball of fire at me. From out of fucking nowhere."

Harry shrugged again.

"_Well_," the man was thoughtful, then. "Well, this is an interesting situation, don't you agree?" he sighed and got up. "I've got no time for kids, even though you're _one hell _of a kid."

The man grabbed his shoulder and pulled him up from his seat. "Alright, get out of here," he shoved Harry toward the door. Harry, however, couldn't help himself, and turned back to look at the pistol in the man's hand.

"I'm not going to shoot you in the back, if that's what you're thinking," he said wryly. "Go on, fuck off."

Harry ran out of the room, pulling open the door forcefully and sprinting down the hall. He shoved the money in his pocket as he went, thinking that the strange man had it all wrong. Harry wanted one of those guns, wanted it more than anything he had ever wanted before, and as he ran down the steps of Claridge's, and away from the encounter, he knew exactly what he was going to do with his gifted riches.

.o00o.

It turned out, much to Harry's chagrin, that there were regulations against eight-year old boys buying weapons. _Of all the stupid laws_, he thought, but wasn't at all deterred. Getting a hold of a pistol was ridiculously easy despite them, and Harry planned his acquisition of a firearm while bypassing the law entirely. Well, the one that had to do with guns. Which meant, obviously, that Harry would have to steal it.

After meeting the stranger, Harry took to wandering about the slums and picking fights with unsuspecting criminals. Most teenagers in the poorer district only had switchblades, so he provoked the bigger thugs in the hopes of coming across the gun he wanted. Once he had sufficiently angered the assortment of felons enough, and they'd pulled out their weapon of choice in frustration, Harry would ask, rather sweetly, "What make of a gun is that?"

"It's a fecking Beretta."

"CZ .52?" _Is he asking _me_ what it is? Or is that an answer? _

"Uh…Glock .19."

"Colt .45," _Bingo. _

In a flash of fire, the man was struggling to put out the flames running up his arms. Harry watched him until he lay motionless on the ground, and summoned the gun from the body. The .45 was a lot like the one he had first seen, and it's resemblance to the other was slightly uncanny. Harry checked to make sure he hadn't killed the stranger in the hotel. Assured that it wasn't him, Harry grinned at his new possession and decided that his entire summer would be dedicated to mastering the pistol.

He knew he had to work on attacking faster, thanks to the man at Claridge's, who had accentuated Harry's weakness when it came to surprise assaults. He planned to find a way to dodge a bullet, a way to incapacitate a gun, and a way to modify the modern weapon, because such a genius machine, to Harry, only needed a few tricks to work to its maximum.

He fancied himself triumphant, especially with the new clothes on his back and his new pistol (all thanks to the aggressive man) and set out to truly hone the art of killing. Harry wondered, one night underneath a bench at the park, when the need to survive had meant killing, and when killing had become more of a desire than a necessity. Harry smiled to himself, because the staircase toward anything but the derelict he was now, was getting shorter and shorter.


	5. Chapter Four

A/n: Help me out by leaving me some virtual cookies. Or pie. Anything. I'm badly in need of some comfort food because RL is a disaster and _fucking fanfic formatting is making me alliterate and italicize ad nauseam!!! _

A Few Responses: Fudge: ha, I hope I can continue with the excitement! Enjoy the next chapter! Ncgal: Hey there! Good to hear from you! Reading TL again, huh? Boy, I wish I could read it again without cringing. This story is _a lot _darker than my others, so I really do hope you like it. It's no romance, unfortunately…and there's not a modicum of fluff. Deal breaker, Ncgal?

_Thanks To_: Amazonia for being the world's greatest beta. Much love.

Dedication: This chapter is for **nairiefairie** who celebrated her birthday yesterday. Happy birthday, love! I'm sorry I couldn't get this out on Thursday, but it was the day after St. Patty's and nothing productive ever happens on that day. Many happy returns!

Warnings for this chapter: Violence, gore, more OC's, murder, and underage crime.

Pistol Whipped

Chapter Four

* * *

The second time Harry ran into Denny Brooks was a month short of winter, just outside the metropolis, when the cold had begun to set in. Harry had been hoping for a good place to sleep for the night, given the police had taken to clearing out the parks after sundown. He didn't begrudge them that, considering how many dealers and prostitutes frequented the place, but Harry had had a lovely tree to curl in beside a public lavatory until they had stormed the square. It was the perfect place, too.

Having had no luck in the alleys of London, he'd set out to Piccadilly to see if he could snatch a billfold or two. Unfortunately, the police reckoned pick-pockets would be there, especially after breaking up the groups of homeless at the parks, and Harry was therefore currently trying to get out of the area with the utmost stealth.

He wrestled his way through a group of school children, who were chatting madly about the lights and sounds, and came out the other side of the stream quite worse for wear and very disgruntled. He cursed extravagantly and straightened himself, suddenly catching a glimpse of a bobby watching him--his beady eyes narrowing. Harry scampered into an adjacent alleyway, noticing a bit too late that the constable had followed him, and he was now inconveniently backed into a dead end.

"Alright, you!" the officer said. "_You've_ been pick-pocketing!"

"I have _not_!" Harry retorted heatedly. "I'm not that stupid."

A hand grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, giving him a little shake. "Street urchins like you are _always_ up to no good!"

"Well, that's a little unfair," he managed to say, before the collar of his shirt was pulled hard enough to choke him. "I was only _walking_!"

"You were thieving! We both know it, lad. Go on and hand over the notes you've stolen."

Harry tried to shake himself free, his face red with anger. "I told you I _ain't got nothing_!"

"You know you're a mendacious little sod! Fess up!" another shake to his flimsy shirt.

It seemed, to Harry, that he was in a bit of a mess. Killing the Queen's officers was a terrible offense, and while Harry knew he could get himself out of this sort of trouble, he also knew he wouldn't be able to do it without causing some sort of injury. If he let the constable arrest him, however, he would be thrown into jail or an orphanage, and there was no lesser of two evils.

A catch 22. _I'm fucked_.

"Henry?"

The strange man from Claridge's was at the mouth of the alley, looking very fit in a black suit with an open lapel, with a confused frown on his handsome face.

"What do you mean by running off on your own?" he sounded so like one of the parents Harry saw admonishing their children at the park that Harry stared bemusedly in a comedic mirror of the constable's expression.

"This yours, sir?" the bobby said, dragging Harry forward.

The man nodded. "Little louse likes to run off on me. I turn my back for one moment and he's gone."

Harry blinked, and then snapped, "It's because you're dead boring, _dad_. Excruciatingly humdrum."

"He's got a mouth on him." And the officer pointed to Harry and looked at his 'dad' as if he pitied him. "Why's he dressed in rags and…" he tore his hand away from Harry's shirt and grunted, "_Filthy_?"

"Rolls around in dirt and muck and the like," the man said with a smile, and when he reached for him, Harry went willingly. "Little blighter."

Harry glared up at him, scowling harder when he put a heavy hand on his shoulder. "You're a blighter, you…blighter," he muttered darkly.

"Well then, sir," the bobby said inauspiciously. "Watch the boy better next time, eh? These streets are full of thieves and criminals."

Harry tried very hard not to laugh.

"Will do, mate," and the man seemed amused as well. "Sorry about the trouble."

As the officer traipsed away, grumbling the whole time, Harry shoved the man in the stomach with his elbow. "Leave off, then." The hand left.

"Fine thanks I get," he said. The man scowled at him, rubbing his torso. "I just pulled your arse out of the fire, you little bugger!"

"I had it handled," Harry retorted confidently and crossed his arms. His impudence suddenly waned until it was replaced by excitement. "Oh!" he snapped his fingers. "Look what I've got, then." He reached into his coat for the pistol.

"Whoa, shite!" The man backed up and raised both of his hands. "Don't go _swinging _that around!"

"I wasn't!" he protested, and made sure the barrel wasn't facing either of them. "What do you think? Oi! Do you like it?"

His savior seemed to relax then and took the gun away from him by the handle. "This is a Colt .45," he said, impressed. "Where'd you get it, Henry?"

"A big fat bloke had it," he widened his arms to show how large the man had been. "He was the fourth one I met, and only one of 'em had a Colt. The others had a Beretta or a bloody Glock. I hate Glocks."

The man stared at him pensively before handing the gun back. "You go to the slums for this?"

"Yeah, had to, didn't I? Most guys only carry shanks, and I had to go poke about the big fat men with their big fat fingers on triggers of brilliant guns!" Harry breathed deeply after his tirade had ended.

"You aren't fond of fat people, I take it," he said to Harry, his eyebrows raised.

"Oh, they're fine, guv. I just don't like what they have because I don't have it."

"How philosophical of you, lad," he said, and it was so surreptitiously sarcastic that Harry almost didn't catch it. "You still doin' that fireball trick?"

Harry grinned. "Sure am, can do a lot more than that though." He decided at the last minute to make it a threat, and glared. The man laughed, his eyes crinkling pleasantly, and Harry noticed the mustache had been trimmed into a short peppering of black hair.

"Funny we should meet again," he pointed out, still smiling. "Saw you in the crowd of children, right before you bumped into that bobby."

"T'right, a laugh riot," Harry said, poking the man in the arm with the pistol. "Wotcher following me for?"

The man grabbed the barrel forcefully and pushed it away from him. "I'm here on business, you crazy piker. Do us a favor," he said, motioning toward the gun Harry still brandished.

Harry conceded with a role of his eyes and shoved the gun back into his pocket. "What's your name, anyway?"

"Denny," the man told him, rather shortly. "You look like shit. Didn't you buy some bloody clothes with all that money I gave you?"

"I did," Harry said, and pulled his shirt to rights. "Bein' out here means you get a bit dirty, _fuck-stick_."

"You've a foul mouth," Denny snapped, and then sighed as he looked the boy over. "I've got to go. You stay out of goddamn trouble."

"Go on," he laughed meanly. "You think you're my dad now? Have a laugh," Harry waved a hand in his face.

Denny smirked. "I'll tell you what, you little shit, if I come across your mangy arse again, I'll make your life a fucking nightmare."

"Try it!" Harry yowled, and then looked at the man nervously. "What'll you do, if you _do_?"

Denny grinned in that sinister, frightening way of his, and Harry's eyes widened. "I'll adopt you."

The sound of Harry's cursing was drowned out by Denny's laughter, and as he watched the man go, he found it odd that he should hope that they might meet again.

.o00o.

Winter was on its way, and Harry, up to his usual scrumping for food and money, had managed to finally bite off more than he could chew. He speculated that it was bound to happen sometime, considering his steady and dangerous habit of killing, stealing, and dodging the police. Honestly, he was surprised it hadn't happened sooner, but then ceased that wily thought with little to-do. After all, he didn't want to go asking for just deserves just yet.

He had been wandering about the slums for close to a week, looking for a fight so that he could whet his 'slow-down trick', as he was partial to calling it. Bullets, he found out, were hard to dodge, the human body simply wasn't fast enough to move away in time. So, he went for tampering with the bullet itself. Harry found he could easily slow down a bullet heading straight for him, and in the mean time scamper well out of the way. It was all good fun, and it pissed off some thugs something awful, but he hadn't thought about two things while becoming impervious to man's greatest invention. The first, was that he could only concentrate on one bullet at a time, and the second, far more important folly, was the fact that some odd blokes carried around machine guns.

A fast moving M10 submachine suppressor that shot considerably more than one bullet, more commonly known as the Mac-10, wasn't what Harry was counting on. He decided, a bit belatedly, that he was in over his head when the gun emerged from the man's jacket, and decided, again a little late, that he was royally screwed.

Managing to slow down six rounds, an achievement on any other day, the rest of the bullets tore into him so forcefully he hit the floor before he could feel it coming. His body immediately felt numb, his heart slowing and growing sluggish, and he tried to pull himself up in shock. The pain suddenly began. Harry didn't know if he screamed or not, but he did notice the terrible amount of blood coming from his chest, his shoulder, his leg, his torso…blood everywhere. He felt his jaw crack from the force of his clenching teeth, the muscles in his body quaking with the agony, the strain, and his eyes started to burn with the steady flow of blood soaking his hands.

He cursed significantly in his head, knowing helplessly that no help would come for him, especially not in the slums, and that the man who had shot him was long gone. He didn't even have the grace to put a merciful bullet in Harry's head. He tried desperately to summon some sort of _trick_ to heal himself, as the pain reached a horrible crescendo, but when the agony abated and he suddenly felt absurdly cold-Harry knew that he was going to die.

"Bloody fuck," he snapped in a croak, blood coating his lips and the taste of metal heavy in the back of his throat. It was hard to speak, hard to move, and Harry knew if he could do either without pain, he would be after the Mac-10 wielding ponce and giving him some choice last words.

The fight left him with his energy, and Harry's body grew lax and heavy. He breathed in shallowly, thinking of a warm fire, laughter, and the scent of peppermints. Finding it rather funny he was thinking of the Weasleys at such a time, he twitched a bit and smiled, recalling the taste of Mrs. Weasley's dinner and the ever present laughter within the home--a home Harry had been lucky enough to call his own. He forced down the regret he felt, determined to die without compunction, and struggled to breathe.

.o00o.

Molly Weasley felt the thump before sure heard it, and, frowning, made her way out of the kitchen. A scream tore through the house when she made it into the hall, and she very nearly sprinted for the den, her worry abruptly sky-rocketing. That didn't sound like a wail driven by Fred and George's mischief, nor a cry for help over trivial things such as violet hair…rather, it boded ill in its high-pitched, sincere alarm. When she exploded into the den, looking about for signs of trouble, Ginny was standing over two dirty sneakers, still yowling. Charlie, who had been sitting on his father's chair taking tea, sat frozen as he looked down at the object on the floor. A number of ideas flew through Molly's head, including all of the dangerous artifacts she had ever dealt with or heard of, and an assortment of curses that may have been cast by accident or intention.

"Step away!" she shouted, unsure as to what it was, but not taking any chances. When she came forward quickly, her eyes recognized the cause of alarm as a person, and Molly did not hesitate as her children did.

"_Chris_!" she yelled, and dropped to her knees beside the boy. "Oh Merlin, oh Merlin."

The boy was swathed in blood, half of his face seemed to be splattered with it, and the red oozed out of the deep wounds in sputters and slow lava-like trickles. Molly put her hands across his small chest, trying in vain to find a place to halt the flow.

"Charlie," she breathed, and then said louder, "_Charlie_!" Her second son jumped up from his chair, as if freed from some kind of binding spell.

"Pick him up, Charlie, he needs Mungo's," she said, and her voice quivered almost as much as her hands as she rushed to the fireplace. Behind her, Charlie lifted the little boy just as Fred and George traipsed down the staircase to inspect the noise. Molly let Charlie go first, who hollered, "St. Mungo's!" before disappearing, and turned to her children.

"Take care of your sister!" she said without explanation, and grabbed up her cloak. "Firecall your father and tell him where we are."

She followed her son, vanishing in a flash of green flames.

.o00o.

Chris told himself that if he were ever shot again, especially so severely, he would put a bullet in his head before someone could save him. The experience of the metal tearing through the body was all shock and discomfort at first. The most pain on impact was usually a terrible ache in the bones that broke, but then that too faded away into a cold, cold numb. No, the agony wasn't in the whole, "Oh, shit, did someone shoot me?" moment, but the aftermath of intense healing, blood loss, and the mending of his shattered skeleton. That's when it fucking _hurt_.

He felt like his entire body, his bleeding soul, was punishing him for not expecting such a powerful weapon in the hands of a criminal. In fact, the first thing he said to Molly Weasley when he woke up, was "Who the fuck carries a Mac-10 around?" and then promptly passed out, leaving Mrs. Weasley to question the healers about brain damage.

The woman herself was trying to come to grips with the fact that the little boy in front of her had been so brutally attacked, that, and she and Arthur both agreed, the boy had apparated to their home most likely to die, not expecting the magical treatment that had saved his life. The healers had a very hard time with the bullets. They took to court summoning them out of his body, but it was quickly banished for all too obvious reasons of _more_ torn tissue and internal bleeding.

Extracting them by hand had taken quite a few hours, but as they did they were able to heal the wounds nicely. They had started from the deep to the surface, stitching together the tears, until finally a thick circular scar marked the place where the bullet had entered. Some of them had exit wounds, and the healers were quite earning their pay with healing that damage.

Unfortunately, the amount of magic they had used to save the lad's life would impair him for a time. He would be dizzy, loose his appetite, and constantly crave liquids. The healers cut off the spells once his body was mended, but there would be nothing to do about the scars, and Molly just had to cry upon hearing that ill news. She was of the opinion situations such as this were only made worse by physical reminders. She was of the opinion it was her fault for this happening, anyway.

There were, in total, six pieces of metal removed from Chris. They had lodged in his upper leg, in his chest (where it had sunk to the right of his heart after puncturing a lung), in upper part of his left shoulder, in the side of his torso, a hair away from his liver, in his forearm, and, lastly, sitting behind the collarbone that it had broken.

A few deep cuts where the flying bullets had skimmed him on his neck and arms would scar, and one terrible part of Chris's cheek was now a long, purple line. The healers were honestly surprised he was alive, and having never dealt with wounds due to Muggle weaponry, they had felt quite out of their element. They did not hide their disgust toward "guns", as one healer had explained, having had standard information on the sort of injury they were dealing with, and had asked Mrs. Weasley how she had come upon the boy, and whether or not he was a Muggle.

She told them the truth, that Chris was homeless and came around every winter, but had Apparated himself into the house after being attacked. Molly told them she hadn't known if Chris was Muggleborn, and that she would seek to take care of him long-term. What with their Hippocratic Oath, the healers had immediately filed an incident report to the ministry, who had never heard of a Chris-with-no-last-name, and speedily placed his file at the bottom of the stack.

They gave Molly his belongings, a pair of jeans full of holes, a heavy, bloody jacket, and the two Weasley jumpers Chris had gotten from them that he had been wearing when he was attacked. They were rather useless now, so crusted with blood and reduced to scraps. Molly had sobbed at that, and had Arthur speak with the healers as she grasped the little boy's hand in distress. The team of healers had given Arthur the Colt. 45 that they had found in the boy's pocket, and Arthur, not knowing what it was and quite overwhelmed, placed it with Chris's other things.

The hospital bill worried him, but Arthur was assured the expense would be covered by the ministry. He had no fanciful ideas that it really would, and took Molly and Chris home a few days later, dreading the impact it would have on their finances. He did not regret Molly giving the boy to St. Mungo's, however, and told Molly that bills could wait. They settled in for a long recovery.

Molly took to caring for the boy easily, strained with both her children and Chris to mind but not unhappy to do so. The first week of his recuperation was spent sleeping, and regularly taking blood cleansing potions and pain relievers. The restrictions on the sedatives made for a bad week after the initial incident, where Chris was restless and in an immense amount of pain.

Beside herself with worry, Molly watched as Chris silently endured the agony, and continued to get less than two hours of sleep due to discomfort. Finally, after near ten days of suffering, Chris began to get better. He walked about with a cane the first two weeks, unable to make it up and down the stairs, but when he did manage he mostly sat on the sofa in front of the fire. The children were good with him, surprisingly Fred and George as well, who were very quiet and respectful of Chris's incapacitated state.

Ginny, however, had nightly terrors about the bloody body that had shown up in their den not a fortnight ago, and the other children seemed overwhelmed when they spoke about the terrible sight Chris had made. Mr. Weasley sat down with Chris one night, and took in the boy's pale face and watchful eyes.

"Chris," he began staunchly. "Do you remember how you got here?"

Molly came in then, handing Chris a glass of warm milk, and sat down with them. The Burrow was silent, the littles having gone to bed while Fred, George, Percy, and Charlie sought their own endeavors upstairs. The crackle of the fire was the only noise as Chris screwed up his face in thought.

"I remember thinking about this place," he moved his eyes across the den. "How warm it was, how it smelled," he looked at Mrs. Weasley. "I thought about you, ma'am, and you, sir, and I must have come here…somehow."

Chris was hesitant to admit his tricks, but Molly's tearful smile made him a bit more comfortable.

"What you did was called Apparating, Chris," Mr. Weasley said gently. "It's magic, and you're a wizard."

So that was what he was! He didn't quite like the term 'wizard', it seemed tremendously fantastical to him, and he reverted back to his original self-title of 'trickster', though still happy to know what he was. A _wizard_, of all things.

"Have you ever done anything phenomenal?" Mrs. Weasley continued for her husband. "Something you couldn't explain?"

Chris nodded. "Yes, ma'am. I once made something float, and then caught something on fire, once when I was cold."

"That's magic, Chris," and her smile was a touch sad. "We can show you the world of wizardry, dear. Introduce you, shall we say." She ran and hand down his uninjured shoulder. "I want you to think about staying with us, with your own kind, where it's safe."

"Molly," Arthur warned, thinking to convey silently that it would be too soon to ask such questions.

"No," she snapped at him. "Chris knows we've always wanted him. Don't you, dear?"

He bit his lip, wanting so very much to stay, but knowing the factors and personal objections towards living with the Weasleys. Chris was so tempted that he took a moment to understand why he couldn't ever become a permanent resident at the Burrow.

One, Chris wasn't really Chris, he had lied to them from the very start, and lies begot mistrust, and Chris wouldn't be able to live with that sort of suspicion. Two, he was a murderer, and murderers were always caught. He didn't want the Weasleys to know that side of him, the part of him that enjoyed killing far too much, that sometimes reveled in it.

He knew his own desire for blood was wrong, but could not bring himself to stop, especially when it meant his survival on the streets. Nor would he hesitate if the Weasleys were in any sort of danger, and he would kill, kill to protect them, and his actions alone, for their sake, would betray the face of a murderer, a liar, and a threat. The most important objection he had, nevertheless, had more to do with money.

Chris's first year on the streets had taught him one thing: money was the forthright axis point of life. It did not matter a man's religion, his attributes, or his dalliances. Money provided survival, gave happiness and safety. Money was something Chris had never had, not at the Dursleys or on the streets of London, and coming upon it was always either a tiresome or a hazardous enterprise. Wealth allowed for shelter, good food, warm clothing, a family, and friends. Without it a man could be considered nothing, and if Chris had one desire, one ambition, it was to be, in the misty reaches of his future-very much a something. He knew poverty like the Weasleys did, perhaps better than they did. They had a home, a family, jobs, and an income, but the feeling of helpless day-to-day skirting by weighed on the shoulders of this family. Chris was intimate with it, but they had seven children and the obligation of feeding and clothing them all; Chris had only himself to worry for.

Poverty was a terrible thing, and he had no wish to burden a family so poor, yet so kind.

"I'll think about it ma'am," was his only answer, though he knew confidently he would only decline.

They told him of magic, then, that his parents were most likely Muggles and he was something that was called a Muggleborn. That there was an entire world full of wizards and witches, with their own laws run by magic, of the rules of magic. It seemed that every one of the Weasleys was magical, and Molly took this chance to appeal to Chris's sense of belonging with persuasive logic in that they would be a good family to introduce him into the world of magic. It was all very impossible, all very castles-in-the air, but Chris coveted the fact that there were others like him, and hated it at the same time. The desire he had to be the best rose up much like a rearing cobra, wanting so badly to know who held the title he would strive to take.

The world of wizards, witches, and magic and their rules were unknown to him, however, and if there was a lesson that stuck (besides the entire Mac-10 incident) it was that he should never go into a game unprepared. He vowed to learn as much about the magical world as he could before leaving the Weasleys in spring, and while his surrogate family informed him of his heritage he would plan.

And he would begin to practice.

.o00o.

Chris developed a talent for creating blueprints in his head. The plans for his eventual take over of the world swirled about frantically after a visit to Diagon Alley. He also saved a place in his convoluted mind for people he would eventually get around to killing. Including that blonde prissy pureblood that had called Mr. Weasley a "sorry excuse for a wizard", which Chris thought was dreadfully unacceptable and only ensured the man a top listing in his 'to die' checkbook, of sorts. The magical market had held numerous amounts of advantageous objects, including the seven books he had shrunk and stolen from the bookstore, the dagger one old witch was selling on the street, and a pair of dragon hide gloves in black that Chris had immediately wanted. Molly bought him an ice cream, and a new duffle coat, but Chris stopped her there with much thanks. He felt bad enough already.

Gringotts had particularly interested him. When the Weasleys had gone in to get money out of their vault, Chris had eyed the goblins with trepidation, and the gold with desire.

"Everyone has a vault here, Chris," Mr. Weasley explained. "Every wizard and witch, and one day, when you're older, you'll have one too."

The inscription on the bank doors had made Chris snigger, for it was unlikely the Goblins would ever be prepared enough for someone like him. Dragons, though, Charlie had told him, guarded many of the vaults from theft. Chris was a bit awed by that, but certainly not deterred.

They went back to the burrow with Chris's mind full of ideas, steadily weighing and adding advantages and disadvantages of such a strange world. He had been using the cane still, and hated it, though he felt his leg grow stronger each day, but honestly despised his odd hobble while it healed. Mrs. Weasley hadn't wanted to take him to Diagon Alley while he was still a 'gimp' as Fred and George had called him, but had given in after Chris's assurances that he was well enough. It didn't stop her from worrying, though.

"Sit, here, dear," she said, gently lowering him into a chair. "Ron, be a dear and get Chrissie a cold pack?"

The welcome freeze on his leg cut back the throbbing vastly, and he smiled at them in thanks. His new coat lay in a bag on the dining table, and the children surrounded the new things in interest. Ron held up a second-hand quaffle, which Charlie had gotten for him, and there was a brief squabble about what belonged to whom. Chris was happy the Weasleys could still afford to get their children little gifts such as this one. Ginny came scampering into the room, her eyes alight with excitement as Mrs. Weasley pointed to the table where her present was.

Chris moved the cold pack to where the pain throbbed at his knee, and watched the ensuing madness that was the Weasley family. Their mother adjourned to the kitchen to make lunch, and the bickering grew louder.

"I asked Charlie for it, you wanted that ugly disappearing hat, so it belongs to me," Ron was near shouting.

"Aye, brother."

"Little ickle Ronny."

"We'll let you have a go at the vanishing bonnet,"

"If you share like a big boy."

"_No_!"

"Is this my present?" Ginny said over the din, and Chris looked up and immediately froze. He had forgotten he had put his .45 in the bag with his coat, for it was very much a pain carrying it about with his still healing body, and Ginny must have gone through his bag in search of her gift.

"What's that, then?" Ron asked, baffled.

Fred tore the gun out of her hand and turned it upside down. "Dunno."

When his finger went dangerously close to the trigger, Chris vaulted forward. "Don't!"

He grabbed the gun out of Fred's hand, ignoring the loud objections that followed, and unloaded it quickly. Breathing easier, now that the magazine was in his hand and not ready in the pistol, he sat down again and tried his best to stretch out his sore leg. At the most inopportune moment, Charlie came in and his eyes spotted the disorder, "What the…Chris!"

Chris wasn't startled by Charlie knowing what the gun was, or his yell that would surely attract Mrs. Weasley's attention. Nor was he alarmed when Charlie ran in front of his brothers and his sister to protect them, his hands in front of him as if to prevent them any harm. He saved the emotion for the distrust and fear in Charlie's eyes, and felt a flood of sadness envelope him like a warm, wet blanket. He had known, after all, that this would happen, not in such prophetic detail, but an incident to inspire the suspicion the Weasley family should have felt the moment they had met Chris.

"I wasn't, I'm not," he looked away from the scene. "I'm not going to hurt anyone, Charlie."

"Why do you have that gun?" he choked. The second eldest Weasley spoke as if negotiating with a very dangerous person, and not Chris.

"_What_?" Mrs. Weasley came in then, concerned, and her gaze went wide at the pistol that seemed to have built a wall between them. Chris had raised his arms to show that he didn't mean any harm, but the gun was still aloft and menacing.

Her face quivered, and she said, "Put the weapon down, Chris."

Not dear, not even Chrissie. He dropped the Colt on the ground. "It's not loaded, ma'am," he told her softly.

"A gun?" Fred sputtered. "Wasn't that what made you a gimp, Chris? Why do you have _that_?"

He could not meet anyone's eyes, could not stare into the mistrust for a moment longer, and he remembered to breathe as he looked away. "Just for protection. Only to protect," he said, which was a lie, and Chris felt more terrible than he had ever felt.

The silence belayed quite a bit about his stance with the family, and that night he listened to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley discuss the happening in the kitchen.

"He had a gun, Arthur! A Muggle machine that kills!"

"He said it was to protect himself, Molly," Mr. Weasley sounded hesitant, to defend Chris or disagree with his wife, he didn't know. "Do you honestly think he would hurt us?"

"No, yes, I don't know." She was sobbing then, if her hiccups were telling. "I see in his eyes, sometimes, a harshness. It reminds me of Fabian," here she seemed to have trouble with the name, so she whispered, "after mum died."

Chris closed his eyes as he listened.

"What would you have me do, dear?" Arthur asked, gently, and Chris could picture his hand on his wife's shaking shoulders.

"I love him so, Arthur. He's only a little boy, only nine. I hated to see him that way! Without a home or…oh, I _curse_ his parents! Or whomever was supposed to take care of him," she dissolved into tears again.

"Don't blame them, dear," her husband shushed her. "They are indeed more sorry he is in such a way then we are."

The silence afterward, broken only by Molly's small hitches of breath, made Chris's chest ache. "Do you want him to stay?" Arthur whispered.

His heart jumped, a thousand times or more, as he listened to her response. "Oh yes!" She very nearly howled. "I want him to stay very much. We all care for him, but that gun, Arthur, what if he's used it for something besides survival?"

"If he has, Molly," and Chris waited, but Mr. Weasley didn't finish, though his wife seemed inclined to instead.

"I _could not _bear it!"

They spoke more about him for a time, eventually moving on to the children, and how they hoped they would never understand Chris's circumstances. One subject had Chris perking up to listen, and he admonished himself for not realizing the situation sooner.

"The ministry will pay for it," Arthur tried hard to assure his wife. "But I've no doubt they'll leave the bed expenses to us. We'll just have to cancel presents this year."

"It's not that poor boy's fault," she defended quickly. "The healing bill will be paid for, you'll see. I could never have not taken him to hospital!"

"I know, dear. We'll make do, as we always have."

Chris had never hated himself as much as he did then. He had never felt so out of place, and found himself to be a terrible, horrible child ruining a wonderful family. He was too good at killing to stop, too ambitious not to be cruel, and too bent on survival to let them keep him. He was a burden to this family, in more ways than one, and how he hated that it was so.

_I could not bear it. _

Then Chris would not make her try. There was, however, the medical expenses to mind, and unless he came up with a considerable amount of money rather soon…but wait! His sorrow was immediately replaced by determination. There was an entire wizard bank at his mercy, and he took the advantage, quite unworried of the consequences. It seemed like he was on his own again, anyway, and as he set down his cane and packed his things, he managed a small smile of anticipation.

Hovering briefly over the pistol, he wondered at the benefits of the weapon, and sighed. The gleaming metal of safety and immorality won out, and the gun rejoined him at his side.

.o00o.

Harry had gotten three things, surprisingly gifted to him, by the time he left the wizard bank, Gringotts. A whole heap of Galleons from his own vault, a vivid red dragon egg, and new friends of two entirely different species. Striding through the entrance and getting down to the vaults had been ridiculously easy, though he supposed the goblins had let him tag along with a family and therefore sneak into the place with the belief he would surely perish. Their curses and traps for thieving wizards only activated upon stealing into the vault, after dealing with a nasty dragon, if it was a high-security holding.

He had had the most mischief with the dragon, indeed. Its name was Tenebres, apparently, and he expressed his dearest apologies for having to kill him, but thieving wasn't very nice, thank you very much.

"Oh, I'm not thieving," Harry had objected casually, patting out the fire that had started on his sweater. His hair was smoking, he could smell it. "I'm borrowing for a good cause, you know."

"Are you?" the dragon said, and then its neck swiveled much like a rearing snake. "Am I to believe you can speak to my kind?"

Harry noticed as well, and commented, "Oh, well, I reckon so, given we're able to understand each other, Mr. Dragon, sir."

"My namesake is Tenebres, human drake. By Ling, I do believe you _are_ a Speaker!"

"Who's Ling, then?" Harry asked, curiously, and Tenebres fixed his wings and snorted a bit of smoke. Dragon amusement, Harry supposed.

"Ling is the mother of all dragons. Her celestial wings made the night, and the stars, her pearls. A pearl may fall every few days, and we are gifted with drake eggs."

Harry sat down before the dragon, his mouth agape at the story, and Tenebres seemed pleased to have his ear. "Ling had a terrible foe, and his name was Chen. Chen sought to cast the world in fire, and did so, so that the pearls could not have time to fall. He is the light, and Ling the darkness, and every day they quarrel over the earth. This means very few drake eggs, human Speaker."

"Why," and Harry shook his head. "That _is_ rotten."

The dragon's wings widened and collapsed next to its bulging sides. "No, it's not, you see, I've been gifted with an egg!"

"Congratulations," Harry said sincerely. "You'll make a good father, er, a good dragon father, sir."

"Alas, I cannot care for my drake. It's mother has died not a fortnight ago, and the little gold dealers have kept the drake in this shield since then. I would care for my drake, yes I would, but do you know why I am named Tenebres, human drake?"

Harry had looked to where the dragon had nodded, and saw an odd bubble of sorts surrounding a large red egg. He shook his head at the question, tentatively moving his bad leg in a painful stretch.

"My name means darkness, for I am as cold as darkness, and I cannot keep my drake warm."

"Is there not another dragon that can keep your baby warm?" Harry asked, and Tenebres suddenly looked very sad, in a way only dragons could, with a dip of his long neck and a shake of his wings.

"The gold dealers have many dragons in their employ," he said sarcastically, and Harry finally noticed the chains around his bulky legs. "But they are wild, and would hurt the egg, perhaps eat it."

Frowning, and a bit disturbed that they would eat their children, Harry reached out and rubbed Tenebres on the snout. He noticed, then, the heavy scarring and the glassiness of his left eye. "How'd you get hurt?"

"Ah, well," Tenebres seemed to be having trouble keeping his concentration as Harry petted him. "The gold dealers like to use the hot steel to drive us away. If not, they use the Clankers, and I do so hate the Clankers!"

"It sounds 'orrible," Harry could not help but admit. "I'm sorry for it, Tenebres."

The dragon nudged him with his snout, and Harry continued his soothing strokes. "It has been many seasons since they have treated me so badly, but you are very nice, human dragon speaker," he hissed softly. "I would wish you to take care of my drake."

Harry drew his hand away. "But I can't! I can't keep the dragon warm, sir; I haven't a home or a fire to warm your drake."

Moving back to sit on his hind legs, the dragon snuffed and twitched its massive head. "All drakes should have a home," he said serenely.

"_I_ don't," Harry insisted. "I haven't a mother or a father, you see."

"I am saddened to hear such things," was the sorrowful response. "But you know of drakes without caring, for you are one yourself. A wise dragon once said that there is no better a protector than the unprotected."

"That dragon was very wise, and all," Harry said wryly. "But all this talk of having your drake, see, I reckoned you were going to kill me."

Tenebres entire body shuddered, his feet scrambling on the ground, and his wings jerking skywards as billows of smoke blew out his nose. Harry heard a rumbling, unaware of it at first, and then he realized that the dragon was _laughing_ at him.

"I would sooner kill my own drake than a dragon speaker!" he chortled grandly. "You are the first I have come across in a thousand years. A blessing from Ling, I would say!"

Harry blushed. "I'll have to borrow from the gold dealers, sir," he reminded him. "I'll not leave until I do."

"Oh, yes, that. For what is your purpose?"

"Ah," he cleared his throat, "A family has been good to me, Tenebres, but I'm a burden to them. I only need to borrow a bit of money to pay them back before I say goodbye. For good."

Tenebres jostled him gently with a great black wing. "You are sad it is so."

He swallowed down the ache. "I like 'em very much."

"Then that is a noble cause, indeed," and the dragon reared again. "A family of dragons is a much blessed thing as well."

Harry thought for a moment, and moved toward Tenebres, a hand going toward his flank. "I'll take care of your drake for you, until it can come back on its own."

"Would you?" and the dragon tossed its head back and forth in joy. "You are a great human! I would not want my drake to stay here."

"It's the least I can do," Harry told him. "You've helped my family, and so I reckon I should help yours. I'll have to, I dunno, hide the drake when it comes to visit you. I wouldn't want it to live here, anyway."

"Too little space, too much darkness," he nodded with a sad snuffle. "It is bad for dragons. I have your word you will keep my drake safe?"

Harry thought for a moment, and then nodded. "I swear to blessed Ling that your drake will be protected."

Tenebres nudged him again. "You are a good soul, though such pain and cruelty is there, I see. But then, a wise dragon once said, the greatest souls are the most heavy, the weakest weigh not but one scale. For this I choose you to care for my drake."

A tail suddenly came forward, the egg from the bubble wrapped in its coils, and Harry caught it in his outstretched hands as it dropped. Improvising, Harry placed the egg in his backpack, turning it about to rest on his stomach as he snapped up his coat.

"Why has he given you the egg?" a voice came from behind him, and Harry spun around. A horde of goblins stood there, their posture defensive though curious. "Well, _wizard_?"

Harry placed a hand on Tenebres's side, and the dragon looked to be rather angry at their interruption. "Tenebres wants me to take care of his drake," Harry informed them.

The goblins did not look surprised, although Harry doubted they normally had any expression except loathing, and the head of the group moved forward. Tenebres moved with him, and the goblin stopped.

"You broke The Thief's Downfall," he said slowly. "It would have frozen you before the dragon, given away your true form, and told us of your approach to a vault. You've broken it."

Harry tilted his head to the side. "Well, it _was_ rather easy," he answered, thinking of the brief yank on his magic that he had swatted away like a fly.

"Wizard," the goblin growled. "My name is Griphook. What is yours?"

"Oh, yes," Tenebres suddenly exclaimed. "What is your namesake, human drake?"

He didn't see any point in making up a name, he had very little to hide, after all, unlike at the Weasleys, and so he said, "My name is Harry."

"Perhaps you could speak outside your mind, _wizard_."

Harry hadn't realized he was speaking in his mind to Tenebres, and he apologized and repeated his name.

The goblin, Griphook, narrowed his eyes to Harry's forehead, for a reason Harry could not understand, and then, of all things, Griphook _smiled_. He moved forward, placing one gnarled claw on Tenebres side to calm him, and waved his hand at the group of goblins behind him. "You're dismissed."

Harry watched, intrigued, as the goblins disappeared into the shadows, his arms wrapped around the egg securely.

"So you are the child of prophecy," the goblin said, and Tenebres shifted at his side. "No need to worry, old friend, I have heard his cause for thieving and find it admirable."

Harry could not believe his luck, as he watched Griphook gently pat the dragon. "My good friend has gifted you with his drake, and if that is not a wholesome judge of character, than I am not a goblin."

Feeling a bit guilty, Harry frowned and said, "I haven't told you why I'm a burden to my family Tenebres, why I'm leavin'-"

"You have taken souls," Tenebres cut him off, and that snout prodded him again. "Many of us have, but you regret such a thing, where many of us do not."

"I'm likely to do it again," Harry warned.

The dragon chortled, though not unkindly. "I would expect you to, for all great souls must be the destroyers of souls as well. To dragons, the folly of Ling is that she cannot destroy Chen. A great folly, indeed."

Harry rubbed his new friend's flank softly. "Dragons are very clever," he said, and turned to Griphook, making sure he spoke aloud, he said, "There's blood on my hands, Griphook, ye should know."

"And Tenebres has reassured you of your soul, I have no doubt," the goblin grimaced, and Harry thought it would have been terrible had the goblin's spear been pointing at him. "Goblins only seek greatness where greatness is due, and I don't think you know, but we too have our own prophets."

Not at all able to understand how exactly he had gotten the trust of dragon and goblin alike, nor any of what Griphook had said, Harry patted Tenebres until Griphook beckoned him forward.

"Come, I shall take you to a vault, so you may _borrow_," he said, laughing rather maliciously.

"I'll see you again, Tenebres," Harry said by way of goodbye. "An' I'll take care of your drake, on my word!"

"Of that I have no doubt," the dragon snorted, and seemed very pleased with the whole incident. Griphook led him to a large vault, unguarded by a dragon, and opened it with little preamble. Harry wondered at Griphook allowing him to borrow from a seemingly random vault, until it opened and his eyes found piles of gold, and a family tree. His family tree.

"This," he swallowed. "This is mine?"

Griphook hummed a bit impatiently, and handed him the key he had used to open it.

"This is yours. You've no need to steal, after all," he chortled

"All of it?" Harry breathed.

"Yes, wizard," said Griphook, and for the harshness of the goblin race, the tone and expression was rather gentle. "Take what you need, and you are always welcome back at Gringotts should you need more. Though I would advise against stealing."

Faced with so much money, Harry took great handfuls and shoved them into his pockets. "This is more than enough to give to my family," Harry said, happily.

"I'd be greedy with my gold if I were you," Griphook told him crossly, honestly put-out that Harry was really going to give his money away.

Harry glared at him, "Yes, well, you're a _goblin_, ain't you?"

The vault shut behind them as Griphook glared back. "What do you mean by that, _wizard_?"

"I mean to say," Harry said with an air of pompousness. "I've not heard of any philanthropists among your kind," he made a vague motion with his hand, but lost the fake cleverness entirely, when he whispered, "That _is _the right word, yeah?"

Griphook laughed so hard his little goblin ears stood straight up, a bit like prickly, raised thorns.

.o00o.

The drake had taken to moving about in its shell not three weeks after the Gringotts debacle. Harry talked to it, often exasperatedly, but made sure his backpack was always in his arms, and warm enough. He had experimented with a trick, casting a strange sort of spell to keep the sack very, very warm, and with it, the magic had served as a good source of heat for him as well.

"Don't wiggle so, little drake," he told it, as he moved down an alley towards his new spot. "You'll crack your shell and you're not ready to come out just yet," he grimaced, and held it tighter. "Or _I'm_ not ready, either way."

Harry himself had taken to staying out of trouble, an honest-to-god miracle considering his penchant for mischief, and now stayed clear of gangs or obviously dangerous men. He told himself it was only for the life he sought to preserve, and not for the fact that the last time he had gotten into a fix, a Mac-10 had plowed through his body. That wasn't his reason at all.

The limp, speaking of, had faded somewhat, though the pain from his wounds ceased to bother him. The star-shaped scars, he found, would never fade, but the weakness in his body had dwindled and he felt rather good for what had happened not a month ago. Not to mention the galleons he had taken from his vault, which insured enough food for quite a while. He chose not to invest in a home just yet, being used to the streets by now, and not wanting to waste all of his money at the present. As he moved down the alley, the sound of a scuffle reached his ears and drew him out of his thoughts. The egg twitched feverishly.

"Shush, little drake," Harry whispered as he moved carefully onward. The sound of a gunshot broke the silence of his head, and he ran swiftly, following the shadow from the meager lamplight. He came upon a scene of blood and gore, and felt his veins pump with excitement. It seemed he had forgotten the thrill of bloodshed, and it returned now with a terrible flair of satisfaction.

A man was fighting bare-knuckled with a group of large looking men, his gun thrown to the alley floor after it had shot once; the victim slumped in a darkened corner with his face entirely shredded. Close range shots liked to disfigure in grandiose ways. Moving forward in the shadows, Harry watched the fight continue; one of the men that had been knocked to the ground raised himself to his knees and Harry saw the flash of a revolver. He withdrew the Colt.

Two shots later and Harry felt his heart beat with euphoria, aware of the matching Colt pointing at him steadily. The drake shuffled about in its shell.

"_Henry_?"

Harry looked at the man concealed in the shadows, and once his eyes adjusted, he answered, "God _damn_ it! Are you following me?!"

Denny Brooks lowered his gun, very amused, and Harry followed his example. "Are _you_ following _me_?"

"No, I do believe I just saved your arse, mate," Harry snapped. "What you doin' here anyhow?" he asked suspiciously.

"Business, you know," Denny said as if Harry did. "What are you doin' here?"

"Me kip's down there, in that alcove. It was safe until you brought your 'business'," he raised his fingers and gesticulated the quotes, "Round to my spot."

"Staying out of trouble, are we?"

"Not likely," Harry limped forward. "Can you please stay out of my territory?"

"How am I supposed to know where your diggs are?" Denny asked as if he were offended, but his eyes betrayed his teasing.

"I dunno, you seem to know where I am," Harry scratched his head. "Or it's a stupid coincidence."

"A coincidence, I assure you, Henry," he smiled. "I hadn't wanted to see you again."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Likewise, pillock."

Denny laughed as Harry adjusted his weight to his other leg, feeling the price of running about in the alley as it began to smart.

"What's wrong with that leg, then?"

Harry cracked his neck and gave the man a short glare. "Got beat up with a Mac-10, if you must know," he explained, and Denny started but said nothing. "Who carries about a submachine gun, anyway?" he asked not trying to hide the frustration in his voice.

Denny looked away from him. "Those that aren't pistol whipped, son," he murmured, and turned back to point at the leg. "You'd best put ice on that."

"Oh, of course," and Harry rolled his eyes. "I'll just pull ice out of my arse for you."

Denny started walking, and Harry found himself following. "If you're cold enough, I suppose," Denny said wryly. "I thought you were a magician of sorts," he mimicked pulling something out of something. "The hat trick, you know."

"That's a _rabbit_. You are a tit, aren't you?"

The man Harry had come to trust, if only a bit, turned to him and smirked. "You're a belligerent little thing. Come with me, we'll ice your leg."

Harry limped after him. "Awful berk," he muttered.

"Jesus, kid," and Denny laughed. "You've got guts. Should I be impressed or worried?"

They made it out of the alley where Denny motioned to a parked car.

"Worried, stupid," Harry told him, and then grinned. "And impressed."

"Noted." He raised an eyebrow as they each stood at a closed car door. "You getting in, or what?"

Harry matched the look, wit for wit, and got into the auto.

"I'm going to regret this later," Denny groaned as he started his car.

Harry smirked. "You should regret it now."


	6. Chapter Five

A/n: This chapter was initially forty something pages. I had to split it up, so it's a bit shorter than the others for that reason. Sorry, I got kind of carried away *is sheepish* Also, thank you very much for all of the wonderful reviews! And thanks to everyone that has put this story on their favorites and alerts!

A Response: Ncgal: oh, good. I was worried you'd be upset about the lack of fluff. The romance, I'm afraid, won't come until the sequel, and even then it will be a strange sort of love (the epitome of D/H). Yep, every week I update, so look for that alert on Friday!

Warnings for this chapter: OC's, language, and violence.

* * *

Pistol Whipped

Chapter Five

Denny stood outside the receiving room of the manor. Baroque architecture allowed for the place to look flamboyant and more fruity than Denny could ever tolerate. Fragonard's aligned the hall that lead to the parlor, where a massive staircase about half the size of the manor itself, sat in cool marble and porcelain embellishments. Denny honestly hated the place, it was gaudy and obnoxious, and as a simple sort of man he would take a cottage over the royalty of such a house any day. He supposed living in the manor made him dislike it more, and if it weren't for his boss needing him there at all times, he would certainly reside in a more homely place besides.

Letting out an impatient huff, he heard the wailing strings of some concerto or another, and followed the music to another room. There, Constance Tyler tried in vain to practice her violin with a metronome tapping steadily in front of her. Her lips began the 1-2, and then the terrible sounds started up again.

"Constance!" the yell of frustration was ignored. "Constance! _God damn it, _Constance!"

Denny watched as Tyler stomped through the door, glaring at his daughter something fierce, and turning to bestow his biting eyes on Denny, as if _he _were an accessory to the murdering of Vivaldi.

"I've got to practice, dad," she objected immediately, in that horrible whiny voice of hers, but at least, and Denny was glad for small favors, the violin had stopped. "The recital is two nights away and I'm dreadfully rusty!"

That would be assuming she had something, some modicum of talent, that _could_ get rusty, Denny thought cruelly. Her mother, Less, liked to encourage her children in anything, however painful, and unfortunately, musical endeavors tended to be a group thing. He reminded himself to invest in earplugs.

"I'm in a meeting, Constance. Go practice in the orchard," Tyler was lying, of course, because Denny didn't know about any meeting.

"But _dad_!"

"Out!"

"Oi! Constance," Denny shouted at her retreating form. "You seen Henry?"

She glared at him, her bow held in one hand as if it were a rapier. "_He's_ in the orchard. He's _always_ in the orchard. That's why _I'm_ going into the courtyard!"

"That's far enough for me," Tyler muttered as she left, and then turned to Denny. "Tell him to stop eating the pine nuts while you're out there, Brooks."

He went back to his office as Denny swiveled around to follow Constance into the courtyard. The air was brisk and clean once he made it outside, despite it being the end of spring, the cold had not let up. The apple orchard surrounded the courtyard in the back of the manor, stretching for five acres until it met a pine forest, where Henry could usually be found picking the cones for their seeds. The boy found an inordinate pleasure in the orchard, more so than the grandness of the house, and just as well, because Denny hated being in there, anyway.

When he had first brought Henry to Tyler's manor, there had been very mixed opinions of the little boy.

Patrick "Poppy King" Tyler had, without delay, asked Denny, "What the bloody fuck are you playing at?" and not without getting a square shot to the head would he be able to withhold anything from Tyler.

"The kid, well, I ran into him on the street a fair few times."

"He's a street urchin? That's brilliant, Brooks."

"Yeah, well, he 's an eye for shooting, and," here he had to weigh his words. "He can _do _things."

"I can do you things, you can do things, my wife can do things," and Tyler had looked like he was a careless comment away from killing him. "What the _fuck_, does that mean, _mate_?"

He'd had Henry show him a bit of his 'magic' and that was the end of the dispute. Tyler, not two weeks after the initial introduction, could be seen coddling the boy something terrible- buying him sweets and clothing enough for a prince. Constance, in jealousy of her father's new favorite, hated Henry with a passion, and in effect so did Less. The relationship between the Tyler's had been strained before, but Henry's appearance and acceptance seemed to accelerate the disunity. Denny didn't mind, was rather amused if one asked for his opinion, and had disliked Less and her daughter as much as was allowed with being Patrick's right-hand man.

Cones crunched beneath his feet, telling him he was close to the pine forest before he could look up and see it for himself. He gazed around the orchard edgily, not finding the boy anywhere, until a bright white blob came careening at him from the tops of the trees. Denny acted on instinct and drew out his gun, pointing it skyward and aiming for the assailant.

"Don't shoot!" He heard a scuttling from the nearest tree and looked up as Henry hopped down, landing on all fours like a cat. "You fucking trigger happy arse!" the lad shouted at him.

"What the hell was that, you little shite?!" he said in return.

Henry walked towards him, his eyes on the sky, and said, "It was just Bo."

"Who?"

"Bo," he said as if Denny was retarded. "The drake," and the unspoken insult was so loud it would have been less belligerent spoken.

Denny didn't like the drake, it was vastly too fantastical for him, although the baby dragon acted more like a flying feline than a reptile. The little thing was the purest white, its hide so bright Denny had at first though it was made of pearls. Its wings were only about the size of a hawk's, its body still pre-mature, and thankfully, Henry claimed, it was too young to blow fire. The fact that it would _eventually_ made it less of a consolation.

"Bo!" Henry called, drawing out the name. "Bo!"

The drake latched onto Henry's outstretched arm, crawling up onto his shoulder when its wings collapsed, planting its little snake-like head comfortably atop Henry's skull. It could have been a very nice hat instead of a dragon.

Henry had that unmindful look in his eyes that meant he was conversing with the thing, and Denny thought it a good time to glare at the offending creature.

"Bo says he's sorry, but your hair, with all that grey in it, makes you look like nesting coveys."

"Little bastard!" Denny cursed, scowling. "I've no liken to a partridge, and he knows it. Why'd you name him Bo, anyway?"

"Short for Beau, stupid," Henry said, stroking the dragon up and down its back, and a purr rose from deep within its belly. "Because he's beautiful," the boy complimented, and he seemed to speak with the dragon again, because the drake nuzzled him happily.

Denny had been horrified when he had realized Henry had something on him other than the stolen gun and the various trash collectables of street kids. An egg of all things, a dragon egg as he'd learned, and since the hatching not two days ago, Henry had the little monster close to him at all times. Tyler was getting suspicious, having not seen Henry around as much, and his nosey daughter was bound to discover Bo in the near future, probably at the expense of her hair, which Bo was very attracted to it seemed.

"Keep that thing on a leash, will you?" he snapped.

Henry shook his head at him. "Do you know what Bo _is_? A dragon, dumb arse, a dragon. Dragons ain't dogs, Den, they're magnificent, wise creatures, and Bo can understand _everything_ you're saying about him!"

Denny sighed. "We had better tell Tyler about the new edition to the house," he mentioned, though he _really_ didn't want to be the bearer of that particular news.

"Oh, but he'll _love_ Bo," Henry assured him happily. "He likes _anything_ I like."

Manipulating bugger, Denny thought with slight affection.

"Have you forgotten about your lessons, Henry?" he asked, knowing that the absent-minded boy wouldn't have remembered even though Denny had only informed him of the tutor yesterday.

Henry started, Bo swerving about on his back nervously, and said, "Oh, bollocks. What time it be?"

Denny glanced at his watch and decided to be helpful, "Half past ten. What time _is it_," he corrected offhandedly.

Adjusting the squirming drake, Henry grimaced and blew out a frustrated puff of air. "Yeah, yeah. Do I have to have lessons, then? Is it obligatory, I mean?" he hedged, obviously trying to get out of the torture all little boys called _education_.

"Considering Tyler's paying for it, yes, Henry," he reasoned. "Not to mention the trouble I went to finding a 'magical' tutor for you." He turned to walk back into the house.

"Did you really?!" Henry said, catching up and looking at him with bright eyes. "Well why didn't you say so?"

Denny didn't bother giving an answer, but was chuffed that the lad was so excited. Henry went on without a care to the man's silence. "When are we going to practice shooting, like you said we would?" he demanded.

"When you learn how to read."

"I _can_ read!" Henry protested, stretching his legs to keep up with Denny's stride. "I ain't illiterate!"

"Perhaps when you can understand the difference between _ain't _and am not, then."

"Don't see no difference! Bo? Bo!"

With a put-upon sigh, Denny grinded his teeth as the dragon climbed atop his head and started to eat his hair. He wondered if pet stores took giant, man-eating lizards.

.o00o.

The man his new guardians had hired to tutor him was a scruff. Henry had nothing against scruffs, being one himself (even with his fancy new clothes) but considering Tyler had paid a whole heap of money for the magical tutor, Henry expected a bit more decorum on the man's part. Upon meeting him, though, Henry had shaken his hand and looked into soft brown eyes full of curiosity, and decided he quite liked his tutor; lack of presentation aside.

"Henry Brooks," he introduced, finally used to the name.

It had taken Denny a few weeks to get Henry to understand that he wouldn't be going anywhere. Denny had predicted getting Henry a tutor would help. He was right, because the boy seemed to realize that there was acceptance in what he was, and besides spending money on straightening Henry up, the best thing they had invested in was a teacher. Not only would Henry cease to set important (valuable) items afire, but they would ebb the hunger for knowledge that Henry had in his magical education. Denny would be happy for the welcome break in questions anyway.

The scruffy man smiled at him kindly. "Remus Lupin," he inclined his head.

"So you're a wizard," Henry said. "I've met wizards, and I'm one too, I suppose. Do you have a wand?"

Lupin seemed amused. "I do."

"Oh," Henry mumbled, disappointed, hopeful, and angry all at the same time. "I don't. Not old enough you see."

"Your father has it right to refuse," Lupin mentioned mildly. "Wands aren't available to younglings until the age of eleven."

Henry straightened his shoulders and hitched up his chin. "Well, I'm nine now, so I don't see why it's such a bother. I can certainly afford it."

They sat down in the study, Lupin looking drab in his rumpled trousers and old tweed, especially next to the specific elegance of the upholstery.

"I won't get you a wand," he deadpanned, not leaving a crack open for an argument. Henry didn't pout, or tried not to anyway, and simply lifted his shoulders as if to say, "Well, I gave it a shot."

Lupin's mouth twitched. "Your father says that you can read. How well, do you know?"

Henry frowned, confused at this question, and bit his lip. "Er, well, how do you mean, _exactly_?"

"I mean your reading comprehension. Are you reading big books, little books…."

"_Books_?" Henry repeated, aghast. "What do I need _books_ for?"

"Oh, well," his tutor cleared his throat. "What can you read, then? Can you write?"

Henry, getting vastly impatient with this man, stood up and pointed a finger at him. "What did you mean about _books_, eh? I ain't never read no book in the entirety of my life, and I ain't going to do it now!"

Lupin sat with his mouth partially open, a bit alarmed at Henry's rapid change of attitude. When it looked as though the boy wouldn't calm unless Lupin reassured him, he resigned with a deep and patient sigh.

"Right, we won't read any books, okay? Not right now, anyway. Suppose I can just lecture and he'll follow…" he mumbled to himself, and then smiled at Henry widely. "You can write your name, I hope?"

"I'm not stupid," Henry snapped, sitting back down and crossing his legs. He seemed to think about it for a moment, before he looked away obviously and softly said, "I can write my name."

"Then that's a wonderful start," Lupin told him, unmoved. "We'll begin there, and before you know it, Henry, we'll be on Magic Theory, Potions, and Transfiguration…all interesting subjects, I assure you."

He grasped a rucksack that Henry had only now just noticed, opened it, and took out a pile of neatly organized folders. Henry watched curiously as the man emptied it, rather oddly meticulous when it came to papers and books. He had tried to be amiable, as Denny had ordered him to be, but the man's questions had bothered Henry. He _could _read (albeit not very well) and even though he really couldn't write at all, that didn't mean he was _stupid_. Remus Lupin hadn't insinuated that he was unintelligent either, Henry was just cross for the sake of being cross. Bo, sensing his upset, slunk onto the sofa beside him and laid his head in Henry's lap.

"Now, we'll begin with the letters-_dear Merlin_!" Remus shouted, his papers flying everywhere as he jetted to his feet, his wand out and ready.

"Oh no! It's alright!" Henry said, jumping up as well. "That's just Bo."

"You," Lupin began, but paused as he watched him gather the disgruntled drake in his arms. "You've got a dragon," he finished lamely.

"His name is Bo," Henry told him, wrapping Bo securely around his shoulders. "He's only two days old."

Lupin blinked, and his wand twitched. "Owning dragons is illegal, Henry," he said very seriously, and Henry couldn't help but scrunch up his nose derisively.

Happy to be the one in control, as he wasn't when Lupin was questioning him and making him feel stupid, Henry smirked viciously and applauded Bo for the payback. _Now who's the stupid one!_ He cheered silently.

"You were hired by two very well-known criminals, Mr. Lupin. Are you honestly surprised I have a _dragon_?" he said, his voice smug and amused.

Lupin found he had nothing at all to say to that.

.o00o.

After the initial meeting, which had been a bit rocky but successful, Henry had taken to learning with all the motivation he had in his little body. The boy had made leaps and jumps in his education, and just as the summer came with stifling hot weather, he was well on his way to being completely literate. Bo could be found basking in the heat regularly, his scales sparkling and his eyes shut in pleasure, and Henry beside him stuttering through books on Magical Theory. Seeing such improvement in the boy's studies, Tyler raised Lupin's salary generously, and ordered lessons four times a week instead of two. Lupin did not complain, and had even started to dress in something other than rags.

About this time, Henry went to Tyler and explained Bo's presence, knowing that the heat would bring Bo out into the open quite a few times this summer, and that someone was bound to notice. Just as Henry predicted to Denny, Tyler took to Bo with amazement and cheer, going so far as to order raw meat to serve the drake on the days when Bo behaved.

As summer arrived, Less and Constance Tyler moved to their summer home in Florence, particularly glad to be leaving the terror that was Henry and an invisible Bo. Denny had taken to teaching Henry the fundamentals of firearms, in the meantime.

"This here is a bolt," he explained, showing the curious boy the spring. "In front of the bolt will be a firing pin, or sometimes a percussion cap. The bolt hits the firing pin, igniting the primer," he let Henry examine the round end of the ammo. "The bullet comes out of the barrel."

Henry took the pieces from him, and scrutinized them one by one. "This," Denny said, giving him a metal bit. "Is a slide. You load the gun by sliding it back, where the sear will contract, and the ammunition will enter the barrel from the magazine. This little notch right here is your safety, keeps the slide and the sear from moving, which makes the gun ineffective once its pulled up."

They moved onto revolvers next, flint match pistols that Denny didn't have but drew a picture of, percussion cap rifles, assault rifles (the man _collected _them) and eventually after the tedious tutorial Denny decided to take him out to practice shooting.

"Alright, Henry," Denny said as he held the boy's elbows up. "Relax your arms, spread your feet into a comfortable and firm position, good," he nudged Henry's legs apart with his own. "There. Right. Keep your grip strong, you don't want the recoil to snap you in the fucking face. Now, align your sights. The top of the pistol to your target. The colt has a jerk to it, don't let it control you," he said as he stepped back.

Henry aimed like Denny told him, feeling the gun waver from side to side, both of his hands around the grip securely. "Alright," Denny continued, scratching the hairs on his chin. "You've got a good grip, a good stance, now I want you to stand normally and put your arms down."

"But I want to shoot!" Henry immediately yowled. "I'm not as inexperienced as you think!"

Denny scowled. "You haven't been taught how to shoot that bloody thing so you're a liability. Just because you were lucky before doesn't mean you'll be lucky again. Now, get back into position."

Henry scoffed and did so, ready for the exciting noise of the gun going off, but Denny told him to relax again. "Maintain your position," Denny admonished. "You need to be able to shoot and aim quickly, because the longer you're ready to shoot the more the gun will shake."

In a ridiculous sort of dance, Denny had him practice without shooting for another half-an-hour, until finally, when Henry had given in and contented himself with focusing on his grip, he was told to relax and position once again, and then Denny said, "Fire."

Henry did so automatically, remembering to ease the pressure on the trigger, and the force of the explosion jostled his hands briefly as he remained in control and the roar of noise followed by the sound of a can clanging and falling had him whooping with joy.

The adrenaline rushed through him like a simmering river of lava, only cooling once Denny clapped him on the back and went after the aluminum can. He came back with it and nodded at Henry with approval.

"You did well, kid," he said, and Henry smirked. "But you blink too much, and your trying to focus your eyes when you aim."

He swallowed. "Yeah, so?"

Denny raised an eyebrow at him. "You need glasses," he said.

Outfitting the boy for specs was a near disaster. Henry hadn't wanted them at all, claiming he didn't need them even though the world was quickly becoming a blur. Frustrated, Denny made Tyler take the boy to get them, and the man came back ruffled but successful. The glasses suited Henry and brought out his eyes, though he hated them and was of the opinion no one would take him seriously with them on. Denny promised they would continue shooting if Henry wore them, and the complaining had stopped.

Lupin saw Henry's glasses the next day at lessons, and had looked as if he had seen a ghost.

"Do you not like them?" Henry asked, insecurely pushing them up. "Do I look stupid in them?"

"What-" Lupin shook his head back and forth like a dog. "Oh, no, I'm sorry. You just look like someone I used to know."

Henry scratched his head. "I bet he wasn't as handsome as me," he retorted, sneering. "Denny's teaching me how to shoot," he told Lupin excitedly, reassured he didn't look too bad in the specs.

"Is he?" Lupin muttered, seeming disapproving. "Why on earth would anyone give a nine-year-old a weapon?"

Henry was pretty sure Lupin was talking to himself, as he was prone to doing every once and a while, but he answered the query anyway. "I'll be ten at the end of July you know, so Denny can teach me what he likes. Ten is old."

Remus smiled, then frowned, and then gave Henry a curious stare. "When's your birthday, then?" he asked, and it all went downhill from there.

.o00o.

"The boy is _extremely_ important to our world, Mr. Brooks! I don't think you know _how_ much!"

"Then it seems all the more important that he remain here," Denny growled. "He's not some circus act, not a freak show, Lupin!"

The tutor seemed so distraught that Henry felt very sorry for him, knowing that no matter how much he fought, Denny would remain stubborn. "He needs to be around wizards," Lupin was saying. "Around people who aren't…."

_Who aren't criminals_, is what he wanted to say, Henry was absolutely sure.

"I wouldn't finish that if I were you," Tyler said pleasantly, emerging from the doorway and heading straight for Henry. He sat beside him and slung an arm around the boy's shoulder. "I see no reason why the boy can't stay here and continue his learning."

Lupin struggled for a moment. "In our world," he croaked, and then coughed a bit. "In our world, Harry-"

"Henry," Denny corrected him.

"_Henry_," Lupin said, looking at the man briefly. "Is a savior. The wizard that killed his parents was destroyed when he tried to dispose of Henry as a baby. Such a feat could never go unrecognized, just as it will not be concealed that Harry is a part of your family. You _won't_ be able to…hide him!"

_You won't be able to protect him. Tch. I can take care of myself_, Henry shifted in his seat and chose to ignore what Lupin hadn't said.

"Human father," Bo suddenly said from beside him. "Your Brooks wants to kill the Lupin fellow."

Henry nodded, and sighed, stroking Bo's nose. "Denny, I don't want to," he said, sounding tired but calm.

Denny turned to him. "Then I'll do it," he decided.

Lupin, having no idea what they were talking about, turned to Henry with pleading eyes. "Please, _please_, your parents would have never wanted you away from your own kind."

"You knew my parents?" Henry asked, sitting up that the admission.

"We were," he hesitated, as if it pained him to speak of it, and maybe it did. "We were very good friends in school. Please, Henry," he tried again.

The boy turned to Denny. "No. Absolutely not," Henry refused, his face contorted in a glower.

Denny sighed, glaring at Lupin coldly as if Henry's disagreement were his fault. "You won't keep it secret, then?" he asked the distressed wizard. "That he's here, with us?"

"I couldn't possibly!" Lupin said, sounding very near hysteria. "If they knew Harry had been left, had been abandoned…."

"Yes, yes," Tyler said, waving a hand and getting up. "Take care of it."

Denny raised his eyebrows at Henry. "Can you?" he asked the boy.

Henry rose from the soft cushions of the sofa and shook his head at Lupin. "I _am _sorry," he admitted, remembering the spell to erase memories that Lupin had unwittingly taught him. "But I don't want you to make a mess of things."

Lupin gave him a panicked look. "What have they _done_ to you?" he shouted angrily.

Henry rose and faced the man, but did not meet his eyes.

"Harry…listen to me, will you?" he jumped up, seeing something terrible in Henry's eyes, and held his hands aloft as if to ward him off. Perhaps he sensed the magic rising in the air. "You can't do anything without a-"

"_Obliviate_," Henry intoned quietly, weaving the new memory tightly and shoving it into Lupin's mind.

"Wand," the man finished lamely, and then looked about himself. "Oh, where am I?"

Denny grabbed his arm and led him to the door.

"I quite liked him, you know," Henry said, and Denny turned to see the boy petting Bo in a comforting manner, for Henry more than the purring drake.

He didn't know why, but Denny felt guilt roar up in his chest, and he choked it down and simply said, "I know. We'll find you a new tutor, lad."

It did nothing to perk the boy up. He felt that Henry's sadness did not stop at the loss of a valuable teacher. Rather, the heaviness of his sorrow could only stem from the information they had learned unexpectedly. News of his family had not been good, and Denny had a feeling that the little street kid he had taken in had always held out a secret dream that his parents were alive. A hope edged with bitterness, but a hope nonetheless.

The guardians that abandoned him probably hadn't told Henry anything about his parents, and Denny knew that a weight had been taken off of the boy, while a new one had been added. It wasn't every day, after all, that a child found out they were the savior of a clandestine world. It wasn't every day that a boy was informed of his mother and father dying for him, so that he could live a life like this one. Maybe that was why Denny felt remorseful, and he thought about it self-deprecatingly as he practically shoved Lupin out the door. He felt guilty, because he would have a hand in creating a person that Henry's parents hadn't expected to die for.

He soothed his conscience by promising to do better, but inside, Denny was rather unconvinced he would triumph.

.o00o.

Isaac Evenward was a very strict looking man. He wore a suit at all times, usually in midnight or grey, with a tie equally bland in the same hue or an offshoot of it-rendering him colorless. His intense brown eyes, so brown they were black, observed everything with an air of respectful indifference, as if the proceedings were inferior despite him being in the thick of them. A hypocrite, of the highest order.

He was old blood, as his entire family boasted, their history in England as a prominent family since before the Dark Ages. A true gentlemen, as was his father before him, and on into infinite regress. He was also a very cruel man, as cruel as any boss with immense wealth, only Isaac was _The Boss_, superior even to his equals. For all of these reasons, Patrick Tyler _hated_ him, despised the man with a passion unseen for anyone else, even his wife, whom Tyler frequently threatened to kill. Tyler wasn't free to ignore Lord Evenward, because they relied on as much as they disliked each other. Luckily, flimsy ties of civility and respect always snapped, and Tyler waited beneath the pleasantries for his moment to strike. How he _loathed _the man.

Henry met Isaac at a dinner party at Patrick's manor. He had been forced to attend, in his best suit, as Constance and her mother were still in Florence for the summer and it was customary to have family at this sort of event. Denny told him he was to be shown off as Tyler's new acquisition, and that his boss rather thought Henry more of a presentable family member than his wife and daughter. Henry had no false ideals that Patrick liked him for his adorable face and endearing personality. Henry could never be called an unintelligent child.

He figured a party at the manor wouldn't hurt, and smartened up for the occasion. Denny himself had a suit and tie on, for which he had been teased mercilessly for, considering he had forgotten to shave and looked like a scruff anyway. All and all, it had been such a relaxed party that Henry found himself yawning through much of it. Denny didn't seem to fair very well, either.

When he was dragged to meet Isaac, however, the instant dislike Henry had for the man woke him up quickly. The tension could be cut with a knife-a very sharp knife.

"You must be Henry," he said to the little boy, rather stiffly. "A pleasure."

The man's handshake told more about him than his stern glare. It was hard and cold, lax with disinterest and what Henry knew to be disgust.

"I'm sure," he responded wryly.

Evenward didn't answer, and instead turned to Denny. "Tyler tells me you have plucked this boy from the slums, Brooks," Isaac said, and Denny looked cross and impatient with him. "I wonder what would elicit such a risk."

"A risk? It's not all that, Evenward," Denny responded, purposely leaving out the 'Lord'. "The boy is very smart. Very talented."

"For a street urchin, he must have been quite impressive," Isaac admitted, but scoffed a bit. He looked back at Henry unkindly. "Though I must be missing the appeal."

They were distracted by the approach of Evenward's family, and Henry was startled at the beauty of them.

"Ah, Henry," Isaac asked for attention with a curl of his lip. "This is my wife Scarlett, and my sons Isaac and Damien."

His wife had long red hair, set in wide swirls that tumbled about her face and down to her small bosom. She was dressed in a dark ruby evening gown, her piercing blue eyes upon him with the same indifference her husband so aptly sported. The son, Isaac Jr., seemed like a carbon copy of his father, while Damien carried his mother's looks and hair. Beautiful, the family was ridiculously beautiful, and Henry could barely avert his curious gaze.

Scarlett shook his hand as if she would rather not, and Henry nearly snatched it away rudely at the feel of wild, innocent magic running across her fingertips. Instead, very smoothly, he drew away the touch and smiled. She seemed to, all of the sudden, grow vastly wary, and actually backed up to put a distance between them. Henry's grin widened.

"A pleasure," he said, amusement coloring his voice.

Isaac and his family retreated quickly, when he noticed his wife looking distressed, and Henry couldn't help but laugh before they'd gotten out of earshot.

"What did you _do_?" Denny said, turning to him with that befuddled expression of his.

"She's a witch," Henry told him, and guffawed again.

"Who's a witch?" Tyler asked, coming up to them and handing Denny a glass of wine.

"Scarlett Evenward," Henry extrapolated without the prodding. "She's a witch, of very little power," he giggled. "And all of it is light."

Denny raised his eyebrows. "Is that a good thing?" he asked.

Henry nodded enthusiastically. "Oh yes, very. She shook my hand and felt _my _magic, which is just about as dark as it comes. Look," he pointed at them. "They're scared to death!" his laughter started up again.

Tyler shook his head, watching the Evenward's make their way out of the room; Scarlett looking a bit worse for wear.

"Did you like Isaac, Henry?" Tyler was aching to ask, and his eyes glittered with suppressed hostility.

The lad smiled. "The man is a moron. Thinks he's a right king, he does," he confessed without restraint.

Denny laughed, and inclined his head. "King Isaac, eh? His men call him Blue, for blueblood. He hates it."

They made their way to the dining room, Henry excited at the prospect of making Scarlett uncomfortable, and Tyler by his side still plotting to outdo Lord Evenward.

"Perhaps we'll take your training up a notch, Henry," Tyler said quietly, and winked at Denny. "Such advantages of frightening a family of their prestige don't happen every day."

"Oh, please, may I?" said Henry, turning to him completely. "I haven't shot anyone in _ages_! I'm positively virtuous!"

"Virtuous, kid?" Denny repeated, amused, but Tyler seemed so pleased that he actually grinned.

"Now that's a spirit to be admired!" he exclaimed, and hugged Henry to his side. "I'll never doubt your choice in assets again, Brooks."

"Is that a yes?" Henry asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Tyler laughed, ignoring Denny's glare, and said, "An _ardent_ yes, young man."

.o00o.

Patrick must have suspected Isaac's underhanded deals long before Henry came to live at the manor. They only waited now, for an informant to snitch about Isaac's betrayal, a reason for disposing of Isaac without too many people raising an unholy ruckus about it. Tyler, Denny told him, would never have dared go up against Isaac, but with the promise of Henry's potential as a wizard, Tyler felt confident that with a little training, Henry would have no problem getting rid of the man. The boy didn't mind, Tyler was a generally likeable fellow despite his manipulations, and Henry believed he owed his allegiance and cooperation, given his warm welcome to the manor.

Meanwhile, Henry decided a trip to Gringotts was long overdue. He thought it wise to disguise himself, considering what happened with Lupin and how recognizable he was with his glasses (which he absolutely _despised_). Plus the whole being famous thing, which Henry was rather pissed about. He dragged Denny to London looking very like a young Henry Brooks, not a Harry Potter, and argued through Diagon Alley about getting contacts, until Denny told him to shut the fuck up and walk. Henry felt very put-upon, indeed.

The goblins knew who he was the moment he entered the bank, and brought them both (along with a carefully hidden Bo) down to the vaults. Griphook seemed very pleased to see him.

"Tenebres has asked for you many times, Mr. Brooks," he said, looking rather smug. Henry supposed he had predicted correctly that he would return, and it certainly explained the reception.

"He will be happy to see you," Griphook grinned.

"I've his drake with me," Henry told him, and Bo poked his head out of his pack.

Griphook rubbed Bo's snout. "A beautiful dragon, and well cared for," he flattered the preening drake.

Henry grinned, holding Bo just a bit closer. "He's a wonderful companion," he admitted candidly, and to Bo he said, "We're going to meet your father now."

"_Dragon _father," Bo corrected, and nuzzled him happily. "Will I have to stay here from now on?"

"What makes you say that?" Henry asked him as they each climbed into the cart. Denny looked a bit overwhelmed, and Henry grinned at him.

"Only because your father doesn't like me very much," Bo told him sadly.

Henry ran a hand down his long white back in comfort. "That's not true, Bo. He does, he's just a pillock about it. You can stay here only if you want to. We'll see what your dragon father has to say."

Bo coiled his long neck around Henry's shoulders. "I would miss you too much, I think," he said, forlorn at the prospect of leaving. Perhaps because he would indeed miss Henry, though the lad had an inkling it had more to do with the raw meat they served to Bo whenever he asked. Spoiled thing.

Henry decided a little teasing wouldn't go amiss. "You only like me because Tyler gives you venison on Wednesdays," he said laughingly. "And for Denny's hair. Doesn't it look like a pigeon today?"

He giggled as Bo nipped at the man intently, his instincts always getting the better of him. Poor Denny was so rattled by the cart ride to the vaults, he jumped nearly off of the speeding trolly as Bo ransacked his grey-peppered hair.

"Gerroff! Jesus!" Denny yowled, his eyes wide with alarm.

"You alright, Den?" Henry couldn't help but ask.

Griphook turned and smirked at them. "Yes, is the Muggle quite well?"

Denny glared at Griphook, then at Henry, and saved his last most angry scowl for Bo, who eyed his hair interestedly. "It's a lot to take in, is all. Leave off."

"Wait until you meet Tenebres!" Henry said excitedly, the wind from their speed carrying his voice. "You'll shit yourself!"

When they reached the vault that Tenebres guarded, they each lumbered out of the cart and walked the little way to the dragon's den. Tenebres stamped his enormous feet and swiveled his neck happily when he saw Henry.

"Dragon Speaker!" he boomed, and Henry saw Denny take a scrambling step back. "You have returned!"

"I promised, Tenebres," Henry said with a smile. "And Bo is here to meet you."

The drake sprang out from behind him, where he had hidden at the sound of a much larger beast of his kind. He seemed to gather courage enough to observe Tenebres endearingly, before reuniting with his father in a chorus of snorts and yips.

"You are a beautiful white!" Tenebres said happily. "White dragons are a sign of the divine."

"I named him Bo," Henry said. "It means beautiful. Isn't he though? You can change it, if you like."

"I like my name!" Bo cried, and at the same time, his father said, "I could not think of a more perfect namesake." Tenebres nuzzled his drake joyfully, and Henry was glad of his approval.

Bo coiled around his father excitedly. "I get hare livers and duck and cow hearts and venison and human father keeps me warm and safe, and there's hunting and flying and a big orchard full of rabbits…." the drake continued to babble as Denny sidled up next to Henry and nudged him.

"Is he staying here, then?" he asked in a whisper. Henry turned to the man, grinning at his wayward hair and round eyes. Denny noticed him laughing and snapped, "Do shut up, you little bastard. That's a fucking dragon, if you didn't know!"

His voice broke when he said 'dragon' and Henry about burst with laughter.

"Is this your new protector, Dragon Speaker?" Tenebres asked, interrupting Bo's tangent about the wonderful flavor of horse hinds.

Henry nodded. "This is Denny, he took me in about a week after I first got Bo from you," he introduced, motioning to the man who looked as if he wanted to be anywhere but there.

"You are warm and cared for now?" the dragon asked.

"Yes, Tenebres," Henry reassured him.

"As any drake should be," he murmured, and suddenly craned his long black neck to snuffle at Denny, who forgot to breathe. "A worthy man," the dragon decided. "He cares for you, but he is full of pride."

Henry watched Denny look to him for the answers as to why the dragon was suddenly in his personal space, and Henry tilted his head and smiled at him while he addressed Ten. "I know. I like him that way, and I'm not wanting, Ten. I'm really not," he said as he finally looked up at the dragon, and away from the shaking Denny.

With one last sniff, Tenebres shook his head and drew away and Denny seemed so relieved that Henry just had to titter.

"I'm ambivalent, dragon father!" Bo suddenly cried, peeping over his father's massive shoulder. "I wish to stay with my dragon father, but then I would miss you greatly, and if I stay with you, I'd miss him just as much!"

Henry frowned, and turned to Griphook to translate Bo's request. "He wants to stay with the both of us. Is there a way he can visit us when he wants to?"

Denny laughed nervously. "Custody battles, Henry?"

"Bo is welcome here at any time," Griphook said congenially. "Perhaps we can arrange a Portkey? Though they will only last once, and you would have to learn how to make them to send Bo back over here."

Henry, startled that Griphook would trust him enough to allow a Portkey to and from the bottoms of the bank, simply stared at the goblin askance. "Truly?"

Griphook grinned at him, as gently as a goblin could, and said, "For a price, of course."

"Well," Henry twitched. "What would you want?"

The goblin raised his head and showed his teeth. "I think I'll keep the debt for when I most need it," he said, and glared at Denny who seemed to think it was a bad idea, given his expression.

"How about that, Bo?" he said to the drake. "You can come here whenever you want, for as much time as you like."

Bo flew to him and wrapped around his body joyfully. "That sounds like a wonderful idea!" he cheered, nestling Henry fiercely.

Henry turned to Griphook. "Do you perhaps have a pendent of sorts? I may as well try and make this Portkey now," he muttered.

"Oh, well, I've got that!" Ten said, following their conversation. "In the chest over there, yes there," he directed as Henry moved towards it. "It was the drake's mother's pendent. She always liked ruby stones."

Henry took the pendent, showing it to Tenebres who affirmed it was the one, and placed a hand on the stone at the end of the long chain. Lupin had gone over the theory of Portkeys with him, and Henry remembered the incantation well. Only, he had never tried to make one before, and though he understood the basics of how it was done, he thought it rather unnecessary to wave a wand in a certain way or voice the Latin terms.

Lupin had told him it was essential, and that wizards had ended up in accidents from a simple mistaken swish and flick. With his pencil, Henry had mimicked Lupin's movements until the man had claimed it satisfactory. What bothered Henry about it, was that when he had been on the streets, relying on his tricks to keep warm or steal without being noticed, he'd never dallied about with a wand, and he'd certainly never known any Latin.

Since his tutor wasn't there, and he didn't have a wand, Henry breathed in deeply and let his magic rise. Tricks came easy to him now, and he noticed that making magic work had more to do with _will_ than technicalities. He set the ruby alive with thrumming power, levitating above his outstretched hand, and told it what he wanted it to do. _Travel_, Henry told it, _safety_, _ties_, _bond_, and he let the magic flow into it like a river, and sealed it with a snap.

When the ruby was no longer warm and glowing, he pulled it around Bo's neck and hummed in success. "I'm pretty sure it worked," he said to Bo. "Just think of coming to me and you'll be there. It has enough magic in it that you should be able to use it more than once before I have to cast again."

"You'll miss me, human father," Bo told him. "I know you will."

Henry laughed and hugged him goodbye. "Just make sure you visit often, alright mate?"

Tenebres rumbled in thanks as they climbed back into the cart, though he was preoccupied by the excited drake flitting around him and diving back into his stories of home. Denny seemed glad to be leaving, and Henry gave him a smile as he held onto the seat so tightly his knuckles were white.

"The spell you used," Griphook said over the wind. "Where did you learn to cast like that?"

"I don't know if it worked," Henry admitted sadly. "I hope it did. I wanted it so that you didn't have to make one every time Bo left, so I fiddled around with it a bit."

Griphook laughed. "Fiddled around with it. Fiddled…" he shook his head as Henry gave him a confused frown. "That was a very impressive show of magic you did," he said. "You have potentially opened a magical passage in the structure of the very makeup of the universe. Without an anchor and with only your own reserves."

Henry cringed. "Have I endangered the bank?"

"Not at all," Griphook waved his worry away. "I am complimenting you, youngling. Not many wizards are capable of such achievements at such a young age."

Denny, who had watched the conversation with a disgruntled scowl on his face, turned to Griphook and scoffed. "Aye, he's a weird kid, talks to bloody dragons and creates passages in universal whatsits."

Henry prodded him as the cart slowed. "Don't hurt yourself, Den."

"Where are we now?" Denny demanded when Griphook and Henry got out of the cart.

They stopped in front of the Potter vault, Henry handing over his key without being asked, and answered Denny patiently, "My family vault," he said as the door clicked open.

"What?"

When it was ajar enough for his adoptive father to look inside, the man's eyes widened for the hundredth time that day, and Henry had the humorous thought that if he did it any more, they would stick that way. The piles of gold sparkled beneath the meek light of the bank.

Henry smirked at him. "Didn't I tell you?" he said, and his lofty expression wouldn't hold and he felt his face stretch into a grin. "I'm loaded."


	7. Chapter Six

A/n: And so starts the last half of chapter five. Seriously, quite a lot happens in this chap, and I'd ask you to pay attention, but you don't really need to. Unless of course, you plan to sleuth out the story before I unleash the plot twists from hell. You can do that if you want, I don't mind. Harry's new tutor is Adalbert Waffling, who was mentioned in Deathly Hallows very briefly, as one of Dumbledore's pen pals. Also, you don't really need to understand the gun-talk to get this. I'm just woolgathering. Thank you all for the wonderful reviews. I appreciate them very much.

Ncgal: So you want to see Henry kick some ass? Do ya? Do ya, really? Wish granted. He's doing a bit of ass kicking in this chapter! As for Bo, I think you may have to fight over him with everyone else that reviewed. He seems to be quite the hot commodity. Ha! Get it? HOT commodity? Dragon? Blows fire? Oh, never mind. *hugs*

Thanks to: Amazonia, for her continued brilliance and steadfast advise, despite her obsession with Jude Law's pretty face. It happens to the best of us, my dear. And to Vivaldinlove, who just so happens to be my soul mate.

Warnings for this chapter: magical theory (aneurisms), violence, CD, gore, and disturbing morality (or lack thereof).

* * *

Pistol Whipped

Chapter Six

Adalbert Waffling was by and large a preoccupied sort of man. Henry thought at first, that he _wanted _most people to think him air-headed and unassuming, but when he got to know the old man a bit better, he realized Waffling was the epitome of an absent-minded genius. He did not speak to Henry as if he were unintelligent, or too young to grasp some of the more convoluted concepts of Magic Theory. In fact, it seemed that most times Waffling could barely recall whom exactly he was teaching, which helped Henry in the long run, because if the man talked to Henry as if he _could _understand…he would usually have a better time of comprehending the lesson. Not that Waffling was the _greatest _of teachers, but he was certainly acceptable.

Henry found himself learning an immense amount from the man. Most of it was useful information on how magic worked, some of it was irrelevant, like when Henry learned that tweed shouldn't be worn under not even dire circumstances, and never with wooden clogs (as Waffling dressed in the horrendous outfit every hour of every day). Waffling was highly educated, however, and as the months went by when Henry received tutoring from him, he gained an invaluable understanding of the magic he used so effortlessly.

"Bert," Henry interrupted his long tirade about rituals, and remembered at the last moment to raise his hand. "Bert," he said, and the man shook his head a little and turned to look at Henry, as if just noticing he was there. "Why is it looked down upon? Blood Rituals, I mean."

Waffling smiled at him gently. "Why, what a question, what a question," he responded, tending to repeat himself when he was thoughtful…and he _always _was. "Blood Rituals are a form of what's classified as dark magic. But only so for the ministry, of which we must always abide by their laws," he shook a finger for every word, with the utmost gravity, and Henry tried not to laugh. "In Magic Theory, however, Blood Rituals are a way to connect a physical thing with another physical thing. Other bodily fluids are used as well, but blood is always the strongest. Subjectively, many would say that it is the soul, where our magic resides, that connects every entity in the grand web of energies."

Henry mouthed 'grand web of energies' at Waffling's turned face and grimaced. "But sir," he said, waving his hand again. "Why is it dark? If blood connects us, and the exchange of bodily fluids," he stopped, _gross_, "does as well, then there's nothing really we can do about it, so why is it considered dark?"

"Oh, no, no, no," Waffling cried, looking disturbed. "The connections that make up the universe rely on these intricate pieces of one's self , my scholar. _Blood Rituals _in the darkest sense, are what magic users incant to create discord in a fellow human being using their blood. The _intention_ is what makes them dark, according to the ministry."

Henry scratched his nose. "But then what would you use them for? The universe," he said, and tried not to sound skeptical with the next bit. "Makes its own connections in this web, so why would we need to make another connection? If not to hurt people, I mean."

"An example of a ritual done for the sake of good," Waffling told him. "Is the Floo Network. Each portal, to each wizards house, was made by the Floo Registry's very talented Connectors, who are immensely knowledgeable in creating links. All for _good _reasons."

"But that doesn't take blood, does it?" Henry asked, looking confused. "It takes a piece of the home, the destination and a ritual to do it, aye?"

"Correct!" Waffling preened at him. "That and an anchor, to hold the connection down. In the Floo's case, it would be the fireplace."

"Right," Henry nodded, but then frowned. "What about creating connections without anchors?"

"Oh, of course, of course, _I beg your pardon_?" his ruffled tutor gave him an indignant glare. "There can not be a web without an anchor, and there can _not_ be a connection without one either!"

"But say," Henry hedged, and paused when Waffling had that startled pigeon-like look again. "Say you made a Portkey. That takes an anchor, right?"

"Indeed it does," he responded, calming. "The wand is the anchor, the incantation is _portus_, and the entities are the two locations."

"Yes, sir," Henry said, and decided to throw the lot in. "But say you didn't have a wand?"

Waffling guffawed. "Then what on earth would be your anchor? My scholar, there a few wizards who can manipulate magic without a wand. Dumbledore, in fact," he started on, and Henry tried very hard not to groan. He was getting _very _tired of hearing about this Dumbledore person, "had the startling ability to not use an anchor for the lesser spells-"

"Bert," he interrupted. "What about creating a connection that can last forever? You mentioned a few days ago, that no connections lasted, except for those made by blood and soul, but that even those were destroyed eventually. What about a never-ending connection?"

"Destroyed? Destroyed?" Waffling said, clearing his throat and giving Henry a sideways glare. "Nothing is ever destroyed, it just becomes something different. However, in this case, there is no connection that is immortal. It will not happen, and has never happened. Magic is mortal, and it fades away just like everything else."

Henry thought back to Bo's ruby. After all the months of Bo using it to journey back and forth to visit, it hadn't lost its enchantments. Would it sooner or later? Or had Henry inadvertently, oh what had Griphook said? _"You have potentially opened a magical passage in the structure of the very makeup of the universe."_

Griphook must have been mistaken entirely, for here Bert was, telling him it was downright impossible. Yet, Henry had done it, without a wand and with enough magic to create a possibly permanent connection. According to Waffling, connections couldn't be created without either. Magic had limits, as well, and most of the rules Henry was told about made sense, but were entirely too restricting.

Finding himself in such a headache inducing conundrum, Henry dropped the subject and simply resigned to the fact that he was special. Usually, he would be enamored of having some sort of power no one else did, but he didn't even understand _what _he could do…he only knew he broke the rules. Breaking the rules seemed to be quite a talent of his.

Adalbert, affectionately nicknamed Bert by a perpetually disrespectful Henry, went on about Blood Rituals once more, not at all concealing his dislike for them. Magic Theory was one of Henry's more fascinating subjects. Most of the teachings were all subjective, given no one had ever seen this 'grand web of energies'. It was assumed that magic came from the metaphysical web, and just as a spider's thread was stronger and weaker in some parts, the species of humans were split. Magic Theory said that Muggles simply weren't graced with a connection to the magic, in most cases by blood. Muggleborns had an explanation as well, they were, according to Waffling, recipients of a strong part of the web, by sheer coincidence and nothing else.

Henry didn't believe it, but was fascinated by the theory anyway. He thought about it late at night before bed, and sometimes whispered to a dozing Bo about what Waffling thought was only happenstance. He believed that it wasn't. It couldn't possibly.

"But _how_ can it be a coincidence?" Henry would ask, frustrated. "Why is the web there in the first place? Did magic create it? _What _created it?"

"You're treading on well tread grounds, scholar," Adalbert always responded. "This is all theory you know, all subjective," he would repeat. "Wizards and witches have asked that question for far longer than you have." Bert never did answer the question.

It about drove Henry mad, especially when his tutor mentioned idly one day, when Henry was asking his questions _again_, that Muggles were known to have their own theories about what created existence. In fact, it was apparently a humdrum subject, and only those credited with an education in it really looked into getting answers. Henry was aghast at that, and had told Bert, "Well, that's just fucking stupid!"

Bert hadn't been offended with his language, rather, he thought Henry's curiosity admirable and had said that the lad would make a _fine _theoretician one day. Henry had muttered, "If they all guff as much as you do, I think I'll pass."

They had lessons in each important subject every Tuesday and Thursday. Potions and Transfiguration were the first, and then Magic Theory and Defense second. Sometimes Bert dabbled in Ritual magic, warding, and curse breaking, but he seemed to be of the opinion they were all left to professionals for a reason. Henry was never bored, per say, but Waffling's lessons did tend to get wearing. He had the most fun in Animagus training, though, and Bert had applauded how fast he had coupled with his form and had started him on practicing the change.

He was on one of his odd tangents one day, that Henry's interest piqued while they were talking about magical artifacts. Sitting up at his desk, his pencil in his closed fist and his eyebrow raised in curiosity, Henry had asked, "What about guns? You mentioned transferring magic to Muggle artifacts was rather easy. Could you modify a pistol with magic?"

Waffling had waved a hand at him. "Of course you can! It's a tangible object, isn't it? And what did I say about linking magic to physical objects?" he quizzed.

"An anchor, two entities, and correct incantation and execution," Henry repeated, his eyes bright and the wheels in his head turning. Bert went off on the subject again, but Henry wasn't listening. Instead, he started sketching out the fundamentals of the pistol, every bit of it that made up the deadly weapon, zealous with inspiration. Asking questions about the modifications subtly was easy with Waffling, and he continued to map out the sketch over the next week. Henry also talked Denny into allowing him to venture to Gringotts, provided he didn't bring Bo back with him. He would need all the help he could get, because Henry Brooks had one hell of an _idea_.

.o00o.

It was likely the complexity of the planned casting was impossible, and probably illegal in the eyes of the magical world. The illegal part made him twitch with excitement, and the promise of a challenge had him grinning from ear to ear for days. It took him three weeks to magic something to near perfection, and when he did, Denny asked an overabundance of ridiculous questions, and Tyler deemed him a veritable genius.

"I was thinking of tricking a pistol long before my lessons with Waffle," he said, using the name Denny liked to call his tutor out of earshot. They sat around the dinner table, Tyler and Denny indulging in the wine, and Henry settling for customary grape juice.

"Magic connects with a physical thing, but needs an anchor," he tried to explain. "Most wizards use a wand. For instance, I'm the anchor for my magic, I filter it and focus it, just as when I tricked the pistol it turned out that the gun itself was the anchor, or the bullet was. Do you get it?"

Tyler shook his head and looked at him as if Henry were a fascinating species of unicorn, and Denny gulped down his glass noisily.

"Right, anyway," he sighed, and placed the two .45's on the table, extracting the magazine and the bullets of one of them. "What I did at first was put spells on the gun itself. By placing a multiplying charm on the bolt, I was able to clone the firing pins, and then the bullets. I'll show you," he got up and moved a chair over so that it was facing him. Henry shot the gun with practiced ease (thanks to Denny) and it hit the chair and cut it clear in half.

"As you can see," Henry told them, waving a hand. "I was able to multiply the bullets seven times, allowing for thirty-six rounds in this here .45, released with rapid fire."

Tyler cleared his throat. "Why just seven times?" he asked.

Henry exhaled through his nose quickly. "It turns out, magic has rules and limits," he told them, with a disappointed frown. "In the case of multiplying things, everything multiplied is an exact clone of its predecessor, and the limit, I've tried it, is seven. Magic won't let you be greedy," he said.

"What are the other rules?" Denny asked.

"In matters of natural magic, or organic matter, it can't be duplicated past seven, going any further comes up with some pretty fucked up results. You also can't cut in to universal matter. I've already done that, without any consequences, but it has more to do with time," he took a breath and finished off his juice.

"Magic will let you cut into universal matter and travel in time only for twenty-four hours, meaning you can go back an entire day or a few hours only. Any longer would make a permanent connection, a tear in universal matter. That's against the rules. There's also an allowance."

Tyler laughed. "Only a crown a week, eh, Henry?"

"Exactly, even though you're a lavish fuck for getting a crown a week," he said, shaking his head at the man with a sneer before moving on. "One wizard or witch can only hold a certain amount of magic, I suppose to allow the superiority of magical people over non-magical, and not be equal to God, for instance."

"You mentioned consequences," Denny asked, scratching his head. "What kind of consequences?"

Henry smiled. "In terms of multiplying, the magic starts to disfigure things after seven. With time, if you try to go back more than a day, the split grows taut, and your body is divided in two."

"I don't fucking follow," Denny admitted, the wine and his confusion dragging the words out.

"I think I understand," Tyler said pensively. "Each time you go back there's a passageway back to yourself, right? In a day, there's only one of you, in four days there's five, it's too much strain and it splits you into pieces."

Henry nodded. "Precisely."

"When you made that passageway for Bo," Denny recalled. "You were only creating one, but you made it a constant. Is that against the laws of magic?"

"No," Henry shook his head. "Its just never been done before with a singular passage. In the magical world, there's a thing called the Floo system, it's like a teleport to other houses via fireplace."

"That's bloody weird," Tyler felt compelled to point out.

"Yeah, it really is," Denny agreed, forsaking the glass and going for the bottle.

"The Floo system is like a gigantic web of passageways, cutting through universal matter. A web must have an anchor, and in this case, it's the fireplace. But what holds the web up is raw natural magic. An immense amount of it. When a wizard registers his home into the Floo, a Connector has to come in and enchant the magic to accept the new part of the web. It means very little who the wizard is, only the ritual has to be done perfectly, because natural magic works on its own," Henry stopped and took a deep breath.

"A Portkey will use a temporary passageway so as to not take the magic from the wizard, and well…kill him. It doesn't need any other anchor but the wand. To create a _constant_ Portkey though…."

"So what you did was create a passageway without anything holding it up, not even using one of those sticks," Tyler observed.

"And without natural magic," Henry confessed. "I used my own."

"Any wizard could do that though," Denny said, trying to sort out what Henry was saying exactly. "Right?"

Henry grinned. "Nope, not without draining themselves irrevocably or dying. And I did neither."

"So that gremlin creature…." his father began, holding his bottle around the neck.

"Goblin," Henry corrected. "Griphook. He was impressed because its never been done before. Which means I'm one of a kind, and I've got _lots _of freaking power."

"Well, that's good news!" Tyler poured another glass of wine, having to tear the bottle from Denny, and gave it to Henry. "Cheers!"

"You can't give a nine-year-old alcohol!" Denny protested, a bit too coldly.

"Of course I can," said Tyler with a grin. "This is a joyous occasion, Brooks. Don't be a ponce."

"Yeah, Den," Henry said, sipping the succulent red beverage. "Don't be a ponce."

Denny grumbled for a time and then waved Henry on. "You were talking about the guns, lad."

"Oh, right," he said, putting his glass down. Henry sat forward once more, with a bit more ardor, and continued. "The multiplying spell was good, but I knew I could do better. In this one I charmed the bullet, and not the gun," he informed, holding up the other .45. "Do you both have weapons?"

Tyler brought out his revolver, and Denny his pocket pistol.

"Go ahead and shoot," he said, once he had moved another chair into position.

They both quickly fired their weapons, at least five rounds into the thing, and heard a solid _bang!_ in the background that didn't align with the timing of their shots. To Tyler and Denny's immense surprise, their bullets didn't hit the chair, rather, they had stopped completely and had fallen to the floor, disintegrating as they fell.

"Jesus Christ," Denny said unnecessarily, looking at Henry, who still held his Colt aloft.

"I put a charm on the bullet, that when it exits the barrel it slows down any bullet unlike itself, then renders it useless," he explained, ridiculously proud. "As you can see, my bullets still hit the chair, yours didn't. I couldn't slow that many bullets with my magic alone, even though I figured a little too late a shield could be used, so I invented this nifty charm!"

"You said anything unlike it," Tyler spoke, his eyes bright. "What if the person who's shooting at you has the same gun, or the same bullets?"

Henry could help but grin madly and hop a bit in place. "That's why I invented new ammo and firearms for us!"

"Eh?!" Denny shouted, his bottle back and wavering.

He brought out two guns, one a regular automatic pistol, and the other what looked to be a small submachine gun. "The Apocalypse .44 Magnum, unlimited round pistol," Henry said, gesturing to it, and then to the other gun, "And the Coronation of Napoleon, unlimited round 10mm submachine gun."

Tyler took one, and Denny the other. "What did you make this out of?" he asked, rather in awe.

"Goblin metal. It's iron, but fortified by the spell casting of our dear friend Griphook," Henry told them, and clarified when Denny looked at him blankly. "The gremlin, Den."

He watched the two get a feel for the guns. "Griphook used the metal so that it could keep the explosion of so much power contained. Goblin metal is actually very bendy," Henry paused when he noticed Denny looking at the hammer. "See how it points down? The excess magic from the shot goes through a vent and back into the gun, so it's not wasted."

Tyler nodded. "Maxim's Theory of Recoil," he said.

"Newton's Third Law," Denny pointed out.

"Exactly," Henry smiled. "You'll notice the grip on each is different, its smaller, because it only takes one hand to shoot it, and the trigger is made of stone."

"Is that amber?" Denny asked, looking closer.

"The amber allows for the spells on the new firing pin to manifest through the trigger, following it, where it travels to the new firing pin," Henry paused and handed them a small tube each. "Instead of various chemicals to set the explosion off, I've put in these two volatile pieces of magic: dark and light, they automatically react to each other. The primer on the bullets," he handed them the new ammo, two square capsules rounded at the edges. "Is made of amber, to focus the explosion. The amber breaks then, and the bullet shoots forward. That means no shells."

"Which means no evidence of the guns," Tyler said with a mad grin.

"Right. It gets better. Go ahead and shoot," he told them, and they both grappled with the grip on the new guns, and shot. Three things registered. One, there was no noise, two, Henry's gun which had shot as well was ineffective, the bullet halting and disintegrating, and three, the chair was gone, leaving only a pile of ash in its wake.

"It was silent. Nothing," Tyler breathed, his eyes on where the chair used to be.

"What happened to the chair?" Denny asked, his mouth agape.

Henry threw down his .45. "See how my bullets didn't work? And yours did? I modified the spell to stop anything unlike it, giving the magic a connection," he said, and then pointed to their magazine. "At the end of your rounds there is a 9mm bullet and submachine gun bullet, which means you can stop any gun using either of those, physical object to physical object, remember?"

He went on when they nodded. "I put an amber that carries a constant silencing charm at the beginning of the bolt, hence the silencer. You've probably noticed, the Portkey for Bo inspired the magic tied to create these, once I'd learned I was quite able to cut in to universal matter to create a constant," he said, and then smiled. "You should give Waffle an early holiday bonus, too. He's sort of to blame for these weapons."

"The chair," Denny said. "What happened to the bloody chair?"

"The bullet has a spell on it, a Combustion Curse, that hits the target and incinerates it faster than the human eye can see," he sat down again with a triumphant grin. "I haven't figured out a way to get rid of the ash yet, I'd probably need to add more spells, but yeah, it leaves nothing behind. No bullets, no shells, no body, no bloody noise."

"And no competing weapons in the history of the world," Tyler breathed out, and then snatched Denny's bottle away to take a gulp. It was immediately stolen back, and Denny drained the rest of it.

"You're a fucking genius," said Tyler, as if the lad were a divine miracle.

"I had help," Henry explained modestly. "Waffle gave me all my answers, and the idea, and Griphook helped me make the weapons."

"I'll give him a raise," Tyler squeaked out, hiccupping elegantly.

"He can fuck my dead mum for helping you make this shite," Denny choked out, and his face was red and his eyes wide. "I only owe him that much."

"Cheers!" said Tyler happily.

"I'd feel sorry for your dead mum, if I were you, Den," Henry decided to tell the two drunk bastards. "You do know he wears tweed and wooden clogs?"

Denny collapsed against the sofa and laughed until he choked.

.o00o.

The consensus was that the guns needed to be mass produced. Tyler was aware of the profit in such a feat in weaponry but was warned to be carefully indifferent by Henry, for the weapons were likely to draw a bit of attention. The lad refused to have them sold on the black market, and told him he would rather have them made exclusively for Patrick's business. Tyler wasn't complaining, the decision certainly had him as the gloriously advantageous one.

Henry was thinking specifically of Mr. Weasley, who dealt with Misuse of Muggle Artifacts (and the magical guns were undoubtedly under _misuse_) and how ill of a position the good man would be in should Henry be caught. Not to mention the wrath of an entire government of wizards, and the prospect of their ire had Tyler acquiescing to keep the guns as secret as possible.

It came about, a week into the manufacturing of the firearms, that Evenward made his last underhanded deal. Henry's birthday had passed, with as much grandeur and pomp that Tyler could heap upon him. The boy had enjoyed the party immensely, confessing to Denny and Tyler that it was his first birthday celebration he had ever had. Henry was now double digits, a raucous event to rejoice indeed.

Denny was of the opinion Tyler was spoiling the child, and the accusation was not entirely unreasonable. Gifted with an assault rifle, a revolver, a goddamn horse (that Bo had thought was for him), an entirely new set of fancy clothes, an aged bottle of scotch, and a pile of books on everything from science to ponce-y poetry. He was also of the opinion that giving a ten-year-old an assault rifle and 1929 Lagavulin was absolutely absurd, and no doubt detrimental to the health of others. Denny's objections were happily ignored.

Having had his birthday with uproarious decadence, Henry set out that summer to help Tyler produce more of his coveted invention. A liaison from the house of Evenward chose to speak with Tyler in the first week of June.

Henry had been dissembling his revolver upon his entry into Tyler's study, and he looked up at the intruder with unconcealed interest.

"He made a deal with Thistle," Maurice (Henry thought his name was) said. "Plans to get his supplies from him. They also hired men for security for indiscernible reasons."

Tyler raised an eyebrow. "All the way to Thistle? King Isaac must be desperate."

"Not desperate enough to keep his bloody gob shut, guv," Denny pointed out wryly, and poured himself a glass of bourbon. "You heard this from his house guards?" he asked.

Maurice nodded. "It's obvious he plans on allying with Thistle to even the competition, so to say."

"Obviously," Tyler snarked, and got up to take the glass from Denny, who had just finished pouring his treat. Denny's lips folded in a straight line, and he grabbed another cup with a click of his tongue. "What he hopes to accomplish in this," Tyler continued. "I do not pretend to comprehend. If he is unintelligent enough to allow for such a happening, and by that I mean his absconding from our contract," he raised his drink. "May God grant him passage."

Maurice frowned, looking a bit confused, and Henry eyed him carefully.

"You may go," Tyler waved a hand at the man. "And thank you for bringing this to light, Mason," Ah, so it was _Mason_, not Maurice.

"It's Maurice, sir," said Mason with an insulted glare, before leaving.

_Ha!_ Henry cheered in his head, grinning at Tyler who looked downright shocked that he had called the man something else besides his name. Denny cleared his throat loudly and gave Tyler a very telling look.

"Yes, I know," he said to Denny, rolling his eyes. "I'm either being set up, not so subtly I might add, or Mason has told us some very valuable information."

Henry tilted his head curiously. "Set up? But he's your liaison, isn't he? And his name is Maurice."

Denny sneezed, and then sniffed. "A liaison is a spy, Henry," he said nasally. "Nothing more, nothing less."

"A spy for which side is what's puzzling," Tyler explained. "People like Mason are notorious turncoats, they follow the boss that has more power."

"It's Maurice," Denny corrected this time, blowing his nose loudly. Tyler grimaced and took the bourbon from him, which inspired a squabble that Henry tuned out with practiced ease.

Henry went back to the pieces of his revolver and thought about their words. They dissolved the great alcohol debate and began blathering on about Evenward and false information. Henry was thinking that being an envoy (or a spy in any event) sounded enormously pleasing. There was freedom in being a spy that allowed for the choice of either boss, and a underlining danger in it that would appeal to Henry from the start. If he was interested in such a career, he would have to foster a talent for playing both sides. The prospect made Henry's fingers twitch.

As it turned out, Isaac had certainly made a deal with Marcus Thistle. The problem, was that such a betrayal would have to be handled swiftly and without mercy, and that meant they were in need of the Apocalypse and the CON. The process of producing twenty-six of these weapons each was not entirely a challenge to Henry, the issue had more to do with training Tyler's men in the ways of magical firearms.

After two men had outright fainted (ex-marines of all things) Tyler decided to postpone training until after Evenward was taken care of. Denny, who had dealt with the weapons quite a few times now, and had gotten used to magic as much as he could, was therefore enlisted to take the hit. The problem with _that_ idea, was it would be one against fifty-something guards and family members, and despite Henry's word, magical weapons seemed too new to be dependable.

Ergo, an argument ensued.

"You can't _possibly_ be serious!" Denny was yelling. "He's ten!"

"And a formidable fighter, you lady's blouse!" Tyler shouted back, slamming his hands down on his desk. "It was the reason you brought him here, Brooks!"

"It was my adorable demeanor actually, Patty," Henry put in, smirking.

"You stay out of this!" Denny hollered at him.

"Don't yell at him!" said Tyler loudly, and coldly. "You would rather I send you in there with a potentially faulty gun, by yourself, against more than fifty men?"

"Better than sending a little boy to a firefight, arse-face!"

"You're not going alone!"

"So give me the regular men, it's good enough," Denny shot back, and his hands were balled into tight fists.

"And have them drop like flies when _your _gun incapacitates _theirs_?" Tyler countered, before shaking his head. "What a brilliant idea, pillock, do you have anything else smart to say?"

"Get yourself telt! He's not going in there, and you'll piss off about the idea before I beat the bloody fuck out of you!"

"_You_ remember who you're speaking to, Brooks!" Tyler snapped, waving a finger in his face.

"Yeah, a coward who'll send a little kid to do his dirty work!"

Henry said, suddenly, above the yelling, "You two are really talking the mickey out of this," he lowered his voice when they fell silent and turned to him. "I'd quite enjoy disposing of the Evenward legacy, you know I would, Denny," he said with a nod to his father. "Even though the weapons are perfectly stable, as you know very well _Patty_, I'd love to go and kill some people, but I won't be foolish about it, I'll be careful," he finished with small click of his tongue and sighed.

"And listen, if you both don't shut the fuck up, I won't be responsible for the pre-pubescent tantrum I'm going to have on the floor," he showed his teeth and flashed his gun. "With a revolver."

"Where did you learn the word pre-pubescent?" Denny demanded, and Henry, just to be a mixer, pointed at Tyler casually. His father scowled furiously and turned to his boss. "What are you giving him to read?!"

"Just because _you're_ an illiterate troglodyte…!"

As the yelling began anew, Henry smiled and took a sip of Tyler's wine, knowing he had successfully nudged his way into the hit. Being ten and clever officially rocked.

.o00o.

There was a fleeting moment when Denny was admittedly frightened. Maurice had informed them of the back entrance of Evenward Manor, and when Denny realized he was going into a goddamn house full of AK-47 wielding soldiers, all alone except for a ten-year-old wizard, he had started to panic. Logically, he should have been scared out of his wits sooner, but the fear had only settled in once he and Henry were shooting down the corridor.

The preservation of his mortal soul was not his fear, rather, the unmitigated fright had more to do with the boy at his side. What if Henry was killed? What if he was injured terribly? Denny still remembered that limp the boy had sported, and the scars that marked Henry as a person who had brushed hands with death. What if Denny couldn't save Henry in time? What if Henry died? Those guns weren't completely reliable, after all, they had hardly been tested! Though, once he had utilized the weapons, he was forced to expel that worry. They worked like a charm.

He wondered when the ice-cold heart of Denny Brooks had opened to allow a sarcastic, all too clever, endearingly manipulative little boy, and then he wondered why it hadn't happened sooner. Despite Tyler's machinations, Henry went to _him _when he needed something, had chosen _Denny_ as his first and foremost confidante and had grown in the past five or so months to emulate _him_, and not Tyler. He supposed the boy liked his boss quite a bit, but Denny had adopted him. Denny had made little rambunctious Henry his son. Not Tyler.

And yet, Henry being in the middle of their current battle was another one of Tyler's calls without his consent. Somewhere he had been overruled, and now he was really regretting giving up the fight.

These admissions did not help to calm the fear in his heart, and as they infiltrated Evenward Manor, he kept Henry close to his side.

"Do you think Maurice told Isaac already?" Henry asked him quietly.

"Mason," Denny corrected absently, but then stopped and looked befuddled. "Is it Maurice?"

"To be perfectly honest, Den," Henry whispered loudly. "I don't give a flying fuck."

The army that met them at the top of the stairs answered that particular question.

"I'll take that as a yes," the lad said, and he pointed the Apocalypse at their assailants with a terrible, completely malicious smile on his face.

Denny speculated if any other father but him would be proud of the bloodlust in their son's eyes, as they synched their shots together, halting the fast acceleration of the bullets in midair. The CON handled like a dream, and Denny was completely blown away with the smoothness of the shots. Henry fired multiple times, never stopping once to reload, and Denny found himself pausing in his shooting with the perfunctory need to insert another magazine. He grinned when he realized he didn't need to.

When they judged it a good time to emerge from the pillar that had served as a cover, a cloud of rolling grey ash had blossomed around the massive room. It floated into Denny's eyes and mouth, and he hacked in surprise and disgust. When he could finally see, he looked toward his son and brushed a hand over his stinging sight. Henry had a pair of sunglasses on, and his hair was completely grey.

"You could have fucking _warned _me!" Denny complained, spitting out a clump of the ash.

Henry perched his glasses atop his head and gave him that 'are you retarded?' look.

"Denny," he said, pausing when he heard a survivor clamber up the steps. Denny aimed and shot, and another puff of ash rose into the air. "You know how the guns work," Henry continued. "_Obviously_, if we were going to be killing a lot of people, there's likely going to be a bit of a mess. In this case, fucking cinders. Considering how well air conditioned this Manor is, using convection for the heat, the circular pathways of the ash catching the air-"

"Alright, alright!" Denny yelled, cutting him off with a full-body jolt. The movement inspired a shower of ash to fall from his head. Henry put his glasses back on. "Shut up you little fucker, and stay close."

"I _told_ Tyler you would be fine," Henry said as they slunk forward. "The guns worked perfectly."

"Funny," Denny answered, looking around the corner of the next corridor they came upon. "I thought you wanted to come along."

Henry grinned at him. "You know I did, Den. You two should never doubt me again, though," he said smugly.

They went to the main floor, and the boy suddenly turned to him. "Can I take care of his family?" he asked, a serious expression on his boyish face.

The train of thoughts in Denny's head, as impossible as they were for a man like him, startled at the mention of Evenward's family. _If they came after me_, he suddenly thought, _they would dispose of Henry in just the same way. _My_ family. _

"Den," Henry called for him, tugging at his sleeve. "Will you be alright taking care of Isaac? He's probably got guards in there too, but the CON should take care of it."

"Yeah," he said, willing to let Henry do the family, if only because he didn't think he could bear doing it himself. Perhaps before he had adopted the street kid. But now? Denny was having misgivings, _and _he was afraid on a hit. _I'm going soft_, Denny sighed to himself.

"There'll be men on his wife and sons, too," he cautioned, looking ambivalent. "Be careful," Denny said to the lad. Henry merely smiled at him, and returned the warning.

He watched his son go, and turned to take care of the patriarch.

.o00o.

Henry was met with the barrel of a pocket pistol upon entering the room. There were no other soldiers guarding Isaac's family, and Henry thought that they had probably run down the stairs to try and hold the invasion off. The only ones in the room were Isaac Jr., whom Henry had met at the dinner party and instantly disliked, and his cowering witch of a mother. The boy's hand shook as he pointed the gun right between Henry's eyes. Had Isaac been trained to actually wield the weapon correctly, both hands would be employed, and Henry would have already been on the floor with a bullet in his head.

"Unwise," Henry said to him, and grabbed the pistol out of Isaac's slack grip. "You should have shot me when I came in."

"Please," Scarlett begged from her seat on an ornate looking bed. "Please," she said, and her voice shook. "Spare my family."

Henry tilted his head. "Why would I do that? Honestly?"

Scarlett was overpowered with fear, and once Isaac had backed up enough, she reached out and grabbed her son to her. "Their father asked for it, not us!"

Scowling, Henry moved forward and raised an eyebrow when they flinched. "What a visage of familial loyalty. I'm touched."

She tightened her grip on her son. "The sins of the father…."

"Oh swallow it, my lady," Henry interrupted mockingly. "Did you really think _that _would work?"

"Spare my family," she repeated, her eyes glossy with tears. "You know I am too weak in magic to fight you."

"Inferiority doesn't beget mercy, ma'am," he said, quoting Denny. "If it did, there would never be anything to kill."

Her face contorted into a horrible glower. "You're a _terrible_ child!" she yelled at him, the tears overflowing and sliding down her cheeks. "A terrible, awful child!"

Henry threw the confiscated pistol into a corner, showing them both that they could attempt to retrieve it if they wanted one last show, but neither of them moved.

"Admirable," Henry complimented, and raised the Apocalypse. "Those are your last words, I take it? I'm fond of last words, so perhaps you may want to make it something legendary?"

"I-" she looked from Henry to her son, and swallowed audibly. Scarlett shook her head and clasped her son to her breast, before closing her eyes tightly and kissing the top of Isaac's head.

He hesitated for only a moment.

After the ash had settled, Henry thought idly that perhaps words didn't always carry weight. Scarlett Evenward's actions had certainly spoken louder.

.o00o.

After their successful jaunt at Evenward manor, things progressed rather swiftly and explosively. Henry had left the training of Tyler's men to Denny, who inspired bravery in the troops that was just enough to make them agree to brandish the modified firearms. Tyler's reputation rose significantly, making him the most formidable crime lord in England, and he was of the mind it would be the entire world with Henry at his side. The little boy himself, had taken to learning to ride Cherry, his russet colored mare, and playing with Bo, who was quickly growing too big to carry.

He could usually be found on horseback about the orchard, with Bo around his neck as a ridiculously massive head piece. It became a rather common sight, and most times his guardians held their conversations there. Denny had joined him on his riding that day, strolling along beside him as they chatted about inconsequential things, until Tyler came out into the orchard to disturb their peace.

"Less is divorcing me," he said by way of a greeting.

Denny didn't seem surprised. "Unhappy, are you?" he asked gruffly.

"I'm not happy or sad about such a thing, or any other emotion besides," Tyler responded primly, but there was too much resignation in his voice for him to be absolutely indifferent.

"Sorry, there, Patty," Henry felt inclined to console. "Thought she was committed, or she seemed like," he shrugged.

Tyler gave a minute shake of his head. "Never committed," he said, and walked with them a bit further. For a time the only noise was the heavy clop of Cherry's hooves against the pinecones, and Bo's consistent purring from his slumbering nest atop Henry's head. "She will get Constance, undoubtedly, along with a fair percentage of my money."

Denny smiled, and nudged Tyler. "Aye, but no more of that wretched violin, eh?"

"Ah yes," Tyler grinned back, a bit tightly. "I _won't_ miss that, I must admit."

"Me neither!" Henry piped up, and then puffed out a sigh of relief. "Bo was threatening to eat her soon, if the noise didn't stop."

Tyler gave him a genuine smile and ran a hand down Bo's back, who arched and opened one curious eye. When he saw it was Tyler, his head came up faster than Henry had ever seen it, and he spoke into Henry's mind excitedly.

"Food?" Bo asked, sniffing Tyler's hands with fervor. "Food? Food?"

"How are you hungry?" Henry scoffed, and grabbed Bo's head away from the askance looking man. "I seem to remember that _you_ fell asleep because we fed you lamb for supper."

Bo settled for sniffing about Henry's hair in an interested manner, until he let out a heavy groan and wilted like a flower. "I'm _always_ hungry," the dragon objected, and rolled over and across Henry's shoulders. "I didn't have any pudding tonight either, human father," he said, looking at Henry upside down.

"I thought I told you," Henry said, tapping his snout, "that you only got a treat if you behaved."

"But I haven't attacked the horses in _weeks_! And I didn't _mean _to blow fire at Denny's car…it was only a sneeze!" Bo cried out, rather distraught. The dragon turned his head again and glanced up at him contritely.

Henry was resolute for about two seconds. "All right, there's a hare heart in the kitchen," he gave in, and Bo yipped madly and nudged him over and over. He smirked mischievously and said, "But only under one condition…."

Denny and Tyler had been talking while he had calmed Bo, and he came into the conversation half-way through. "…and seeing as I've got an heir right here," Tyler was saying as he turned to smile at Henry. "It's not much of a loss."

Henry tilted his head and watched as Denny grew red in the face. "He's already got a last name, Tyler," he said coldly.

The man smiled in a very stiff and nasty manner and nodded. "I'll leave the fathering to you, Brooks."

"They're always so cross," Bo said to him, craning his head to stare at the two men who remained in a contest of silence and stuffy glares. "It has to do with you, doesn't it? Are you going to restrict _their_ pudding?"

"No," Henry told him, and Cherry started into a gallop, going ahead of the two. "Let's see how far they'll take it. I may just get something out of their games," he explained. Bo stretched out lazily and yawned.

"Besides," he added with a grin. "There are more important things than those pikers. I've the world to take over, you remember."

"Not until I get my pudding!" Bo said, and shook himself like a dog. Henry smiled and let the dragon live up to his end of the deal. He watched Bo dive-bomb Denny and Tyler with supreme joy, and as the sun went down and the moon rose up, he thought that he rather liked his misfit family. It seemed, at least, that they would be his for as long as he would have them.


	8. Chapter Seven

A/n: Another jump! Henry is thirteen now and we get to see the Weasleys again! Feltham Young Offenders institution is an actual prison in Feltham, London. It's not a very nice place, or so I hear. I got all confused typing up this chapter, because it got way too long and I didn't know where to stop. My notebooks had me stopping at page fifty something and it was all one huge mess. It's all sorted now, though. Eleven reviews and multiple favorite story alerts? Thank you! Seriously, I was blown away by the response!

Responses: Amazonia: You know that I love you. Hating how Henry killed that family is all good. I wanted you to hate it. Having already applauded your eye for things, I'll simply say bravo again. Nice catch. As for Henry being the most powerful wizard alive? No. He's not, not by a long-shot. In terms of power, I'd say he's right up there with Snape. Superpower!Harry stories bother me. And I think Hitler's mustache is quite fetching, to be honest. Talk to you soon! Ncgal: I'm sorry! That scene was meant to be disturbing. You're not a softy, because it was hard for me to write, and I can't imagine having to read it without the justification that you're the one in control and this didn't really happen. For all you know, I could be a raging sociopath! Or a stand-up comedian, lol. It's a good thing I'm not either.

Warnings for this chapter: teenagers (oh no), language, violence, and irony that makes the law look a bit shoddy.

* * *

Pistol Whipped

Chapter Seven

"God grant me the serenity to accept things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference."

"Fuck load of shit that'll do."

"Please," Denny said, gesturing skyward in an abrupt motion of desperation. "Please."

"If you're hoping for a smiting, Den, it's not going to work."

"Come on, God," he said as if he were coaching a football match.

"I am God, didn't you know?"

Denny turned to his adoptive son and scowled fiercely. "Wanker," he decided.

Henry couldn't help but laugh at the very put-upon expression on his father's face. He sobered, and sought to console him. "It's not as bad as all that, Den," he comforted, giving the disgruntled man a one-armed hug. "I don't _mean _to be a bother."

"Oh, _really_?" Denny retorted, turning sideways to deliver his patented glare. "What about the time you let Bo eat Tyler's Porsche?"

"Porsch-a, not Porsche," he corrected, "and Bo only gnawed on the boot a bit."

"Or before that, when you took the original out for a joy ride and crashed it into a bridge?"

"That bridge moved in front of me."

"_Or _when Constance came to visit and you turned her into a weasel?"

"You were quite happy about that, if I remember right," Henry pointed out tentatively. "And so was everyone else."

"_Or…._"

"Okay," Henry interrupted, flapping a hand to get him to stop. "I get it. Is this revisit past grievances day?"

Denny shrugged. "It's a veritable comedy of grievances, I like pointing them out," he explained before pursing his lips.

"This was an accident, you know," Henry told him, pointing toward the ground. Denny immediately scowled, and he back-pedaled quickly. "Not that those other times were on purpose either, um, well…."

"Yeah, yeah," Denny waved a hand in his face. "What do we tell Tyler about this, then?"

Henry thought for a moment. "A nuke?" he suggested, scratching his nose.

"A nuke?" his father returned dryly. Denny chuckled without humor and said, "You're a bloody moron."

They went about cleaning up the bodies and all of the destruction the spell had caused. Henry had been tampering with the new and improved CON, now dubbed the Victory over Napoleon (VON), for its sheer power and shielding. Tyler had been very impressed with the gun, especially the nuclear blast it gave off without the blinding light and radiation. Tyler wouldn't, however, be happy with half of his personal guard burnt to a crisp. Henry was tinkering with the charge, allowing more and more power to possibly waylay the ash and go for entire disintegration, thus taking care of the evidence in the cruelest way possible, but he had failed. Rather brilliantly.

"Goddamn wizard kids," Denny cursed as he dragged one of the bodies towards the house. The leg suddenly popped off. "Oh, God! What the fuck?" he shouted, jumping away from it and wiping his hands furiously on his pants.

"Ha ha!" Henry burst out laughing, holding his stomach as his father kicked the limb away from him. Once Denny had learned (the hard way) that the bodies were indeed in a delicate sort of state, they began moving them once more with the utmost care. Henry continued to tease his father as they worked.

Tyler came out before long to inspect the noise, and they both dropped the corpses and held up their now empty hands. "Sorry!" Henry yelled at Tyler, looking deranged.

The man's pleasant smile transformed into a rather disturbed expression, which was reasonable considering Henry had yelled in his face. He looked towards Denny for answers, and caught sight of the bodies.

"Is that my personal guard?" he felt inclined to question.

"It was," Denny said sagely, shrugging one shoulder.

Henry shushed him and explained what had happened. They didn't know whether to be relieved or troubled that Tyler thought it was the funniest thing he had ever seen, bar Bo chewing on a 911 Camera Porsche that he claimed looked a bit like a horse.

.o00o.

The summer of '93 held many changes for Henry. He had just turned thirteen at the end of July, with another grand party where Tyler shoved him off to intimidate the guests. Henry had enjoyed himself despite the posturing, while Denny had sulked in a corner eating cashews, deliberately showing Tyler what he thought about Henry being so very ostentatious.

It was a hot season, stifling really, and though the heat wasn't enough to ruin the summer holiday, it sure made the days uncomfortable. If Henry could describe those particular months, he would call it discontented, simply because the happiness he had experienced for those four years at the manor, was about to come to a close. Tyler and Denny were constantly at each others throats, over him ridiculously enough, and even though Tyler tried his best to convince Denny that his son would be less troublesome if he was put to work, Denny wouldn't budge on the matter. In retaliation, Henry had taken to risking a bit more to get his hit of violence now and again.

Bo was spending more and more of the summer with Tenebres, if only to escape the tension at the Tyler Manor. Henry's guardians were rather busy trying to uphold Tyler's reputation, and there had been recent talk about warehouses around the world, in various domains that Tyler all but owned in order to create more of the guns. It would take quite a bit of money, time, and silence to get the job underway. Which meant Henry was left alone mostly, coddled by Denny and pressured by Tyler, and no one was around to watch Henry should he get into any mischief.

Come June, Henry had attracted trouble in the form of bobbies. He supposed his reckless tomfoolery had to catch up with him sometime, at least, that was what Denny had told him when he'd been bailed out. Tyler, by then, was so fed up with Henry's antics that he was amenable to having the law handle the issue. Breaking and entering was a one to two year bird, and Henry had certainly earned the sentence. He hadn't meant to get caught (did anyone ever?) and he hadn't even had a good excuse for pilfering those antique sculptures and the television from that indiscriminate house.

Boredom, Henry had explained with a wince and a shrug. The man who had owned the house pressed charges to full effect of the law, and that interminable summer, Henry found himself before Britain's judiciary system.

The hearing hadn't gone well, the magistrates taking major offense to Henry's lack of respect, and his petition of not guilty and exclusion from the crime by pleading temporary insanity because of ennui. Needless to say, it didn't work very well.

After the trial, Henry had confronted Tyler about his blasé attitude in regards to Henry's conviction.

"You mean to say," he said coldly. "That with all your money and your power, oh, that's right…money and power _I _gave you, that you're not going to get me out of this?"

Tyler glared him indifferently. "It is my intention," he said slowly, and then nodded to Denny to include him. "And your father's, that you serve your sentence like a king's man."

"But _why_?" Henry howled, and beside him, Denny winced. "I was only having a bit of fun, Patty."

"Your _fun_, as you like to call it, has brought an inquiry into this household," Tyler snapped, and jabbed a finger at his desk. "An illegally adopted thirteen-year-old living with two suspect men, committing deplorably wild acts such as breaking and entering? _Really_, Henry?" he exhaled deeply and calmed himself.

"You've no record before this," Tyler continued, a bit quieter. "You aren't even in the system as a citizen of Britain. Do you have any idea what you've given us with this stunt of yours?"

"It's not my fault my parents never filed my birth certificate," Henry defended, and then scowled. "And I'd think this is a _little_ mistake compared to the illegalities you like to com-" before he could finish, Denny walked over to him and covered his mouth with his hand.

"Mind your tongue, lad," he said, shaking Henry a bit. "The inquiry has people listening in. You'd do well not to state anything of import in here."

Denny waited until Henry nodded his understanding, and took his hand away. He went back to his seat and relaxed once more. "What Tyler is saying," he explained. "Is that you not being legal makes us seem like baby snatchers."

Shaking his head at that, Henry turned back to Tyler. "Our lawyer knows I was picked up from the streets," he argued. "He _told_ the honorable judge," Henry made the official's title sound more like a sardonic yarn.

"The suspicion is still there, you see, and now they know you're Denny's kid, and that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, well, " Tyler coughed a bit, and then sighed.

"Even still, Henry, your stupidity has brought bobbies around my home, costing me money to house clean, I guess you could say, and time, of which I have very little," he spoke with such coldness that it took Henry back. His tone matched his eyes. "I will not tolerate it."

"So I'm banged up if I make one stupid mistake?" he yelled.

"It's my hope," Tyler went on as if Henry wasn't shouting. "That the idiocy you have exhibited as of late will be curbed nicely in an institution. I, myself, spent five years in the same facility to the same effect," he finished rather pompously.

Henry cast Tyler a look of disgust and turned to his last chance of escape. "You're supposed to be my dad!" he was close to bellowing, and Denny flinched and licked his lips. "How can you _condone_ this?" he demanded.

Denny had learned to recover from the onslaught of this _teenage_ Henry with practice, and bestowed upon his son such a terrible glower that the lad's next words were choked into silence. "You're an asset to Tyler's business, an assent to _me_. But make no bloody mistake, your actions have consequences and if you think it's alright to shout at me," he pointed his trigger finger in Henry's face. "You need more correction than I thought."

Henry was voiceless for a time, looking at his guardians with undisguised loathing, and from somewhere he managed to gather the courage to say, "I can't believe," he breathed out a laugh and looked away. "I can't believe I'm hearing this hypocritical shite from two _fucking criminals_!"

As calm as he had started, he got louder until he was yelling again, and Denny shook his head and rose to grab a bottle off of the shelf. Tyler raised an eyebrow, and clasped his hands behind his back.

"The best advice," Tyler said finally, to a panting and distraught Henry. "Comes from those who have made the same mistakes. You'll serve your sentence, Henry. If you escape from prison, or if after your term is done I see no improvement, I will wash my hands of you."

Henry gaped at him, and then turned to see if Denny was like-minded. His father merely raised his glass and gave a shallow nod of his head. Disgusted, and positively irate, Henry made a sound of fury and rejection deep in his throat and stormed out of the room.

They were out-of-line, he thought, wrong about everything and just two old frauds who thought they were better than everyone else. He had to admit, once he was well away from them and closeted in his room, that he was frightened at the prospect of Tyler and Denny sending him to Coventry, so to say. Being excommunicated was slightly preposterous, considering Henry's involvement in the business, but the threat had shook him nonetheless.

He was comfortable there. What had Denny said once about familiarity? Henry leaned his head back on the closed door and shut his eyes. "_Familiarity breeds contempt," _he remembered. Perhaps he had done something worth Tyler washing his hands of him. Perhaps he was at fault. Henry inhaled deeply and knocked his skull on the wood behind him. He was too angry to feel remorse. He was too furious to be reasonable. He was moving forward with the door that was opening.

Henry scrambled away from the entrance and stared at his father expectantly. Denny looked at him all awkward, holding a small box in his hands and shuffling from foot to foot.

"I know you're angry," he began, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. Henry scowled at him, but remained silent. Denny sighed. "I brought you a gift," he said, and handed the box to him.

Henry took it. "This about a million pounds to pay off the judge and get me out of nick?" he asked belligerently.

"No," Denny said, looking disappointed. He turned around and opened the door again.

"They're contacts. I know the constables don't allow them, but I'm sure you can do some of your magic stuff to keep them hidden," he gave Henry one last look. "You get in a barney in there and you'll lose your eyes with glasses."

Henry made to say something, but Denny had already left with a slam of the door. He turned around and let out a frustrated groan. "Fuck!" he cursed, and flung the box on the bed before collapsing next to it. "You've made a right mess of things," he told himself, laying down with a deep huff.

Denny and Tyler didn't speak to him at all after their fight, even when he was dragged off in cuffs after his sentencing for a nine month stay at a young offenders institution in London. Henry wasn't too scared about the dangers of the place, for if it did prove to be inordinately cruel, his magic would be able to free him. The prospect of his guardians being disappointed and casting him out, however, had him motivated to stay and serve his time no matter what. He was still furious with them though, and kept his promises to himself. He gazed up at the large building from the rear of the constable car and grimaced.

This would be his home for the next nine months. _Joy_.

.o00o.

Arthur Weasley kissed his wife on the cheek as he sat down for dinner, the warmth of the kitchen and the appetizing aroma of his meal comforting him greatly after the bustle and rush of his workplace. The children were eating and squabbling, as they usually did at meal times, having only stopped their noise to greet their father as he folded into a chair. They were having a roast, mashes, sprouts, and treacle tart for pudding. _Ah_, Arthur thought to himself, _poor Molly_.

The meal was one they had made every Christmas, Chris's favorite meal, and ever since that fateful holiday four years ago, Molly had taken to making the dinner when she had Chris on her mind. The children knew what it meant as well, but had enough tact not to mention it, even though while eating they were forcefully reminded of the boy that had lived with them for such a short time. It was a bittersweet memory.

Arthur had wondered about Chris quite a bit, though they had received a few letters from him two years ago, telling them the lad was fine, that he had been adopted and that he missed them greatly. It seemed for a while that they would not have to worry about him, but the missives had eventually stopped and Molly had voiced her fears that Chris had fallen into unmitigated disaster.

They all remembered when Chris had appeared in their den due to accidental magic, and the blood and the blue tinge to Chris's lips that had been the cause for nightmares for Molly and Ginny. With the children home for the summer holidays, that anxiety had lessoned some, but something had obviously started Molly in on her concern for the lost boy once more. They ate rather peaceably, with Molly asking him about work.

"We've had a bit of trouble with Muggles wielding strange guns," he said tiredly. "The Aurors are saying that magic doesn't work on them, but a lot of us don't believe it."

"You can't tamper with guns, can you dad?" Ron asked with his mouth full. "Magic and technology and all that."

"Where'd you learn that, Ronnie?" Fred piped up, hitting the back of his chair.

"Your girlfriend tell you? We know you can't read!" George said.

"Ooh, Hermione, tell me about _Hogwarts, A History _again."

"Shut up!" Ron hollered, his face bright red.

"That's enough, boys," Arthur put a stop to it. "In answer to your question, Ron, no, it shouldn't be possible I don't think, but then Kingsley says guns aren't like comptutors and they could very likely be spelled."

"Computers, dad," Ginny corrected absently.

"That doesn't sound at all good. Don't you dare throw that sprout at your brother!" Molly warned, and then turned back to Arthur. "Have they any idea who's doing it?"

"We tried for magical residue, to see if a signature came up, but the magic got so confused it broke all the spells on the firearm. We'll have to get another, I suppose," he said wearily, knowing it wouldn't happen based on how hard it had been to get the first prototype.

The fact that the gun wasn't marked with a known magical signature simply meant that the perpetrator was under another name, a name recognized by magic but not the ministry. The spell wouldn't hold because of the intermingled signatures, and Arthur could only hope the next bit of evidence they came across (which could be years from now) was more telling.

Molly suddenly cleared her throat over the din of the renewed laughter and munching from their children, and she looked at them all anxiously. "I've gotten a letter today," she said.

The children and Arthur stared, and Molly gave them a rather happy smile. "From Chris," she finished.

"Oh, really, mum?"

"Is it him? _Is it_?"

"My best mate, Chris? _That_ Chris?"

"Shush, now," Arthur told them, excited to hear his wife explain. He waved her on after he had cast a warning glare at the twins. "Go on, Molly, dear!"

"I'll read it, shall I?" she said primly, and unfolded a plain piece of paper, not parchment, and cleared her throat again.

_Dear Weasley family, _

_I know its been a while since I wrote, and I apologize, and you've every reason to chuck my letter out because of it. I know I would. I've had a good time of it, these past two years, with my adoptive father and all. He's real nice, taking care of me and teaching me his trade. Your last post said that Charlie did decide to become a Dragon Keeper, and I'm glad for him. I know he liked when Bo would visit, even if you didn't so much Mrs. Weasley. Sorry about your chickens. Anyway, I've recently gotten into a spot of trouble, like I always do, and they've sent me to a correctional facility for a year. Bad luck, that._

"What's a correctional facility?" Ginny asked, interrupting. Molly obviously got the idea of what it was, but she looked to Arthur for confirmation just in case.

He sighed. "It's a prison for underage Muggles," Arthur explained.

"_Prison_!"

"Blimey!"

Arthur waved a hand at his wife. "Continue, dear," he motioned, and she nodded sadly and went on.

_I didn't mean to do it really, I'm usually good at stealing, you know. And even though I'm not wanting with my new dad, I got a bit bored, I guess. Anyway, I've been here a couple months and it's not that bad. They feed you three times a day and let you exercise The boys here are annoying though. I had a go with one a week ago, but the other guy got the worst of it. _

"Ho, ho, that's our Chrissie!" Fred cheered.

"Gave him a shirt full of ribs, I bet!" George clapped.

_They put me in isolation for a few days for that. That's when the guards lock you up in a solitary cell and all you've got are your thoughts and jingles that get stuck in your head. Some of the boys are a bit touched, honestly, but they don't bother with me now, 'cause of that one crazy bloke that didn't turn out well. I'm not in a bad way, I guess. _

"Oh, it sounds terrible!" Ginny said sadly, close to tears.

Arthur nodded, and Molly seemed so upset then, that he took the letter from her and started to read where she left off.

_They've got councilors here, who put us in groups to talk about what we did and why. One bloke went and hit another kid over the head with a cricket bat, another drove his mum's auto into a police station (idiot) and quite a few of them are in here for murder. They aren't that tough though, despite what they think. _

_The councilor told us to write a letter to our family, and even though Denny went and adopted me, you lot are my first family and always will be. I miss you all quite a bit, and I've got to serve my sentence like a king's man and not just Apparate out because Denny would be awful cross and he wants me to get some discipline. _

_He's my dad, in everything but blood, and I'm starting to think it was a good idea sending me here. Got a little too confident, you know? And this place really lets you think. After I get out, I'd like to see you lot again, if you'll have me. I'm only allowed two pieces of paper, and an hour with a pen (they think we'll off ourselves or something) and the guards giving me the times up signal, so I'd best end it here. I hope to see you when my bird is up, and I miss you all. Fred, George, lay off of Ron, will you? _

"Betrayal!"

"Traitor, absolute turncoat!"

Ron only grinned happily. Chortling, Arthur continued before the twins could get started again.

_Yeah, yeah, I'm a traitor. To you Mrs. Weasley, Mr. Weasley, I hope your summer is going well, and I'll see you soon. _

_All of my love, _

_Christopher Brooks _

"So _that's_ his last name?" George asked, frowning.

"His dad sent him to Muggle prison?" Ron wanted to know.

"Hard-headed, this Denny Brooks seems to be," Fred nodded self-importantly, as if the conclusion could have only come from him.

Molly placed a hand on Arthur's arm. "Do you think we could visit him there?" she asked hopefully.

He observed his wife. "At the Muggle prison, you mean?" he clarified. "I don't see why not." Arthur turned the letter over, to see the return address. "It's in south London, we could go by when we go to Diagon for the school things."

"Brilliant!" Ron said happily.

"Ronnie fancies Chrissie, doesn't he?" Fred teased.

"Someone will have to tell poor Hermione," George grinned.

The ensuing tussle got Molly out of her Chris-induced stupor rather fast, and she admonished Fred and George while Ron's face flamed a tomato red. Arthur ignored the ruckus as best as he could, observing the letter closely. He had his suspicions, that the money placed in his vault the winter they had last seen Chris had been the lad's doing, and that Chris was in a lot more trouble than the letter relayed. He also had the idea that this Denny Brooks was an altogether bad sort of influence for the boy. He started, a bit, at that thought.

"Chris didn't get a Hogwarts letter," he said at large. "Unless he refused the invitation, or his father did."

Ron scowled. "I mentioned that ages ago, dad," he angrily reminded. "He must have not wanted to go, not that I know why."

"No," Molly pondered, frowning. "He would have come, because you were there, Ron," she concluded, and her son blushed.

"Maybe his dad really didn't let him," Ginny said, seeming sure that this Brooks character was indeed a horrid kind of person. She looked angry enough to spit.

Arthur thought that his daughter was taking this too seriously, but couldn't begrudge her judgment in regards to Chris's dad. He thought it likely that the father had refused Chris's admittance to the school, but he would reserve any assumptions for after he had spoken with the boy. He placed the letter on the table, folding it back up neatly, and committed himself to enjoying his dinner with his family. He tried not to worry.

.o00o.

"Don't tell me I've come all the way over here to listen to silence," Denny was saying. "You've no reason to be cross with me, Henry."

He sat back and gave his father a level glare. "Not as such," he said without ire. "How's Bo?"

"I wouldn't know, would I? That infernal lizard has gone off to torture someone else," Denny retorted, and seemed relieved that the boy was talking to him, no matter his nonchalance. The cage around them made his father uncomfortable though, and Henry watched him fidget with an amused smirk.

"He's not so bad," Henry corrected. "And Bo is more than an infernal lizard. He would have eaten you, Den, if I'd allowed it."

"I didn't come here to get a lecture on your pet dragon," Denny said with a growl, and Henry shushed him. "I can't even go on about dragons in here? I hate prisons."

"They'll send you to the loony bin if you do," he warned, before sitting up with a sly grin on his face. "Did you miss me, dad?" he poked fun.

Denny hated it when Henry called him dad, and the look on his face said that his feelings hadn't changed in the four months Henry had been there. "If you must know, yes, I did, Henry. Tyler as well. We were most concerned with the bell that told us you'd been hurt," he gestured to the split lip and the black eye.

"Just a tussle," Henry said, shrugging. "The other smart bloke woke up with a crowd around him."

"Gave him hell, did you?" Denny grinned.

"You know it," Henry said, returning the smile. "I miss the house too, you know, and you and Patty fighting all the time," he shook both of his shoulders and his jump suit rustled. "And I miss real clothes and real food."

"It's not intolerable, is it?" Denny asked, quietly.

Henry sighed, and glanced up at him through his eyelashes. "If it were I'd be out by now. I've taken a hit to my pride, I hope you know," he said, and then smiled. "But it's not as bad as all that."

"Good," Denny said, nodding. "Good," he looked away at the guard, who was motioning that their time was up. "Looks like we're done."

"Looks like," Henry affirmed, and got up.

"Oi," Denny suddenly said, grabbing him around the shoulders for a hug. "You stay out of trouble and they'll let you out on good behavior. Tyler's a right bastard without you around to domesticate him," he said, and his mustache quivered with amusement.

Henry burst out into giggles. "Good behavior?" he said, laughing. "Go on!"

.o00o.

Albus Dumbledore thought of himself as quite an intelligent man. Much of his wisdom was in his ability to foresee actions before they happened. Political acumen, per say. His predictions, however, relied on the fact that men themselves were predictable, and if one should know the inter-workings of such a dangerous force as mankind, one could be just as intelligent as Dumbledore.

Most called him brilliant. Some simply called him a chess master, where the pieces were the most powerful emissaries of the human race, but Albus didn't much like chess, so he took ill to the title. 'Meddling old man' was a frequent moniker used to describe his manipulative personality. In fact, recently he had heard a new one float through the halls of Hogwarts. 'Bumble'dore was certainly an acceptable nickname, and Albus was particularly fond of that one. After all, eccentric old men weren't often considered dodgy.

Because of his talent for calculating the wiliness of humanity, Albus was very rarely caught off guard. He could admit that in his younger years, the mistakes made with Gellert were in all probability his worst, and that his approach concerning Tom Riddle likely could have been handled better. The past, however, was the past, and Dumbledore was old enough now that he could handle the war at hand with reasonable aptitude due to his experience.

He didn't count on the fact that Harry Potter wouldn't stay put, that his relatives would go a bit overboard punishing the lad and that they would hate him as much as to abandon him. He didn't predict that little Harry would fall under the radar like a rabbit escaping a fox. Dumbledore found himself cursing about that one late at night, even though he never liked to be profane.

He had hoped a rather taciturn version of the boy's father would make his entrance as a first year almost three years ago. He had hoped to twinkle his way into the boy's heart, and from there have the advantage that would surely win the war. But Harry Potter hadn't shown up, and upon further investigation, the Durlseys had went and gotten rid of the boy as if he were yesterdays trash.

_Not good, not good at all. _

The irreparable damage cause by the abandonment wasn't what worried Dumbledore. No, rather whomever had the boy in their hands was now the most powerful political man or woman in England. And it was likely they didn't even know it. It didn't help that tension with the Ministry had begun the first year Harry Potter was expected to attend Hogwarts. Albus knew it was only a matter of time now, before things got out of hand.

Considering the political climate and the boy-who-lived not in Hogwarts to at least boost public morale, the last two years had been a time of caution and of fear. Rumors spread as fast as the panic did, and Dumbledore sat with empty hands; unprepared to face it. He cursed every deity in existence, and thought that perhaps he wasn't as intelligent as he had thought.

With the whispers of the failing Ministry, came pressure from those who had suffered the mistakes made by the Minister in the past. The American Hit Wizards, as well as the Russian Union of Magic had already approached Fudge about the possibility of the rise of another tyrant in consequence of their underhanded politics. The minister, in effect, had gone to Dumbledore claiming he had told the various leaders that they had a weapon that would take care of any potential Dark Lords (which Fudge continued to claim was poppycock). Dumbledore was more prone to the idea that Voldemort was no where near as dead as everyone thought. For that he agreed with the need for a weapon, and that weapon Dumbledore would have had, had Harry Potter gone to Hogwarts. Quietly, Dumbledore and Fudge got together a group of Aurors to search for the missing boy.

Only, after two years of nothing, Dumbledore realized that the problem lay in magic, and in name.

The natural law of magic relied on connections to produce power. Wizards could wield magic depending on the strength of their connections and how well they could channel the small bit of them accessible to the earth. It held together with an individual signature, a signature of a wizard. Magic relied on a name, and somewhere, Harry Potter had changed his name and his magic into something decidedly unregistered with the ministry. Which made finding the boy and absolute mess.

Standard tracking spells on wands, that told the ministry when underage magic was being done didn't help either. The boy had never purchased a wand. Harry had been registered at the Dursleys as well, whereas most magical children were only put in the books once they attended school. It didn't help that he no longer lived there, allowing the enchantments to keep track of him to become obsolete.

Dumbledore didn't know whether the boy's magic had manifested despite the spinning artifact he had made to track the child at his birth. The golden trinket on his bookshelf was made for Harry, the magical connection linked to the signature Lily had used to sign Harry up for Hogwarts. The signature passed on with a tiny silver rattle covered in drool.

With the change in Harry's magic the trinket was damn useless, and Harry Potter himself rendered just as futile. If the boy had never exercised his powers, they would become dormant and in this particular outcome there was the only hope Dumbledore had. If the lad were to come into his magic, choosing the name his heritage had given him, the trinket would come alive and allow him to be found. If, however, the name was lost, so would the boy.

Another problem presented itself then. The options of dormant magic or an awakening provided another more terrible alternative. Should Harry truly recognize his new name, whatever it may be, and have the knowledge to use his magic to imprint the signature, there would be the chance of his power changing irrevocably, and possibly not for the better. If the new signature in itself was strong enough, and Harry remained ambivalent with his two names, the boy's magic could explode into an interminable, terrifying force.

Dumbledore had held the son of Lily and James Potter at his birth, and had felt the potential but didn't think Harry would be as powerful as him. Nor as powerful as the Dark Lord. Magic grew over time, just as a wizard's connection could, and Dumbledore feared that if the signature were allowed to manifest, the child would either lose his magic, or gain quite a bit more. Albus did not like coin tosses, and this was what the Harry Potter issue had become.

Of the four selections, Dumbledore realized that his counter could very well escape him, captured by an outside party or put to sleep by ignorance of his rightful world. That whatever could and would happen, would no longer be in his control. It frightened him. He was always terrible at allowing the future to shape itself, and giving up control was a challenge, at best. But he had no choice, and Albus Dumbledore was a very intelligent man. He would have simply have to sit back and wait.

.o00o.

Mrs. Weasley turned her handkerchief over nervously in her hands. Arthur, who walked ahead of them with Ron, was exuberantly pointing out different Muggle things that he found fascinating. Molly couldn't bear to think about ekeltricity (or whatever it was called) when her heart pulsed with such terrible anxiety. Beside her, Ginny clasped her blouse in a way that said Molly was the one being comforted, even though some who watched them pass may have thought otherwise. She supposed it helped, but still wished her husband and her boys would recognize the seriousness of their destination.

The logical part of her knew that they did but were trying in vain to seem joyful for her sake. She hadn't the heart to tell them it only made her more upset.

Feltham Young Offenders Institution was a massive building that looked very much like a prison (apt, but despairing), for all of its barbed wire gates and barred windows. Molly hated it immediately, recognizing it for the hellish cage it really was, and she tried hard not to cry as she followed her husband to the entrance. Wanting to see Chris, but not in these circumstances, Molly thought that any mother would agree that this would perhaps be one of the hardest things she would ever have to do. They went into the cramped receiving room where the guard gave them a somewhat baffled look. Molly hoped they were all dressed Muggle enough.

"We're here to see Christopher Brooks," Arthur told him timidly.

The guard frowned, and then turned back to a square grey box with a very intent gaze, seemingly ignoring them. Molly grabbed Fred before he could wander over and see what the man was messing with, and waited as the sound of clicking emitted from the long bar of what looked to be plastic keys. Baffling, Muggles were.

"_Henry _Christopher Brooks?" the guard queried, glancing up at them.

Molly started, and when Arthur remained silent she nodded. "That's him," she said, thinking that it must be.

"Please step to the side of the line, here," he said rather seriously and made a swift motion. Suddenly, they were surrounded by the uniformed 'please' men. "Sorry, ma'am," he said to Molly. "I haven't seen this big of a group come to visit a prisoner in a long time."

"We're his family," she explained, and cleared her throat as they patted her down intrusively.

"Oi! Watch it!" Ron shouted at one when he went a bit too close to the front of his pants.

"Sorry," the guard said again. "Standard procedure, you see. Every visitor has got to go through it."

She hadn't thought that they would search them, even at Arthur's insistence that they would, and she reminded herself to thank her husband for the Disillusionment and Shrinking charms placed on their wands by Kingsley, now hidden deep within Molly's bag. Fred and George chuckled grandly as the guard patted them down, and Ginny simply raised an eyebrow as the woman who had searched Molly went over to her. They made them each go through a strange metal arch, that beeped at Fred once before they checked him and waved him through, saying it was likely his belt that had set the thing off. Arthur was predictably fascinated.

"Follow Gerard there, he'll take you to the visiting room," said the guard, and they did as they were told. The man lead them to a barred off space with tables and chairs strewn about, some occupied by young kids in drab grey shirts with matching pants, others looked to be older than that, visiting with friends and wives. A mother was crying and holding her son's hand, with the boy looking wholly overwhelmed.

They sat patiently for such an impatient family, Molly trying her best not to listen to the distraught mother, and taking comfort in the arm Arthur put in hers. Finally, after hours it seemed, a clank traveled down the corridor, and they looked up and saw Chris being led in by one of the guards. He too had the bland suit on, and his hands were cuffed in front of him.

Chris said something to the guard, and the man snapped, "Yeah, yeah, Brooks. I know."

The boy looked over the room and stopped in shock, his face growing slack and his mouth open. And then happiness, albeit restrained, lit up Chris's face, and Molly wanted to burst into tears. She controlled herself, but did stand up when the gate was opened to let Chris through. The guard un-cuffed him and dragged him by the arm towards their table. Once he was within reach, Molly flung herself at him and cried, "Oh Chris! Chrissie, dear!"

Chris was laughing as he hugged her, and then the rest of the Weasleys moved to greet him as well. She watched his happiness as her husband and her children embraced him, and after the pats and hugs and handshakes, they moved to the table and sat.

"You've grown so much!" Molly couldn't help but say, and leaned forward to touch the boy's cheek. "And into a such a beautiful young man!" She worried her lip between her teeth and ran a finger down the fading bruise over his eye. "You've been hurt."

Chris blushed and smiled. "A fight is all, I'm fine. How is everybody?" he asked cheerfully.

"Well, we're all very well," Arthur said, his eyes bright. "But you! In here! Is it _terrible_?"

Regardless of it being a prison, it was purely Muggle, and Arthur's curiosity couldn't be curbed. Molly scoffed, but Chris laughed.

"Not at all, really. They treat me fine," he responded.

"Did you expect us?" Ginny asked, looking at him as if he were someone she had never seen before. He could have been, Molly thought, because the little boy they had known not long ago was vastly different from the young man before them.

Chris looked sage and gave a half-grin. "You were on my list of visitors, weren't you?"

"Mate!" Ron interrupted. "Why didn't you go to Hogwarts with us?" He ignored his parents admonishments and looked at Chris intently, who frowned.

"How was I supposed to sign up?" he questioned, and leaned forward in interest.

Everyone except Arthur gaped at him. "You didn't get your letter?" Fred said, aghast.

Chris showed his empty hands. "Nope, I never did," he told them.

"That's odd!" George exclaimed, befuddled. "You're a wizard, we know that!"

"Lower your voice," Molly shushed her son, glancing around to make sure that none of the Muggles had heard.

"He's right, though," Fred put in. "All wizards and witches get some kind of letter to a magic school."

Chris looked thoughtfully indifferent, and Arthur was startled. _He knows about signatures_, the thought came to him. Which meant he had changed his name and confused the magic, and had done it on purpose. Arthur sat back a bit, suddenly very ambivalent when it came to the boy in front of him.

"Is your name really Henry?" Ginny was asking Chris. "They said your name was _Henry _Christopher Brooks."

Smiling at her, Chris nodded. "Denny gave me the name Henry. I go by Chris with you lot, though."

Which Arthur thought was funny, because it _still _wasn't the lad's real name.

"Your Denny sounds like a strict man," Molly mentioned tightly, trying not to look too scornful.

"Not as such," Chris waved the comment away and grinned. "He's just as hard on me as I am on him. I give him hell, really."

Fred and George laughed, and Chris asked about Hogwarts. The children took their turns telling him stories of school and news of Charlie, Bill, and Percy, who hadn't been able to visit with them. Finally, Arthur motioned for Molly to wrap up the proceedings as they had discussed before coming to the prison.

"Let your father speak with Chris," she ordered, herding them out. "Come on. Fred, don't! I mean George. Both of you. Leave the 'please' men alone."

Chris stared after them with a smile, before turning back to Mr. Weasley with a placid sort of look on his face. "Thank you for letting them visit," he said to Arthur softly.

"It's not a problem, Chrissie," he assured the boy sincerely, and then paused to choose the most gentle way to go about the interrogation. "You know of magical signatures," he said, opting for a question that wasn't really a question.

"I do," Chris confessed.

"Is there a reason you didn't want to go to Hogwarts? That you changed your signature?"

"Yes," Chris told him. "For many reasons, and most of them selfish. I also like my surrogate father very much. I wanted to stay with him and his business."

Not the reason, Arthur knew, but bypassed it as Chris went on. "I can hope you won't tell anyone? That I'm not going by my real name?"

He blinked. "Of course, Chris," he said, and thought it an odd request. "Your choices are your own, after all."

Chris smiled at him. "You wanted to ask something else," he prodded, his eyes serious and very green compared to the blandness of the room.

"Yes," he cleared his throat. "I came upon some money, well, quite a lot of money a few years ago, and the goblins refuse to tell me where such generosity has come from." Arthur raised an eyebrow at the boy. "Perchance you know?"

"Perchance," Chris said with a curve of his lips that told Arthur he was trying hard not to laugh.

Arthur sighed. "Chris…."

"You do know that I like to think you and Mrs. Weasley are family," he interjected, and the joy abruptly left his face. "I didn't want you to think otherwise even though I left without saying goodbye."

"But why _did_ you leave? You weren't a burden, Chris, we loved having you," he felt compelled to say it, even though Chris had heard it many a time. The softness in the lad's eyes after his encouragement told Arthur that the sentiment was finally believed.

Chris seemed very sorry indeed, and very sad. "I'm here, you see? I'm what I am and you're what you are. I am only my own responsibility, and see how well I messed that up? I would have never wanted to cause your family trouble. I hate that you all saw me here, but I hoped you would come visit me anyway," Chris paused and looked away. "I deserve to be here, sir, there's no mistake, and it would have been worse if I'd stayed with your family and made trouble there."

Arthur remained silent at that admission, feeling dreadful and despondent for the boy. "Perhaps you wouldn't have done those things, if you had stayed," he said, but it wasn't voiced with confidence.

Chris laughed shortly and shook his head. "Perhaps," he allowed. "Perhaps not. Que sera sera."

Arthur chuckled, but it was a sad sort of amusement. The guard behind them suddenly yelled, "Brooks! Times up!"

Chris stood, and Arthur rose with him. "That's it then," the lad said, giving him a one-armed hug. "Don't visit me again, okay? Mrs. Weasley has enough to be getting on with than me in this place," he tossed his head in the direction of the bars.

Arthur swallowed thickly. "Should we expect you when you get out of here?" he asked.

The boy met his eyes and Arthur saw the sadness in them as the cuffs were put back on Chris's thin wrists. He looked small against the larger form of the guard, and the backdrop of the cage he was in.

Chris let his arm be pulled toward the gate. He smiled at Mr. Weasley briefly, and said, "See you then."

And that was that.

Arthur went back to his family with a sigh of resignation. He shook his head at Molly's questioning glare and lead his them away from the cold place, away from the miserable figure of Chris paying for his crimes. He couldn't help but look back at the prison as they headed out, deeply saddened by the thought that he might never see the boy again. He swallowed down the disappointment, and knew that it would break Molly's heart.

.o00o.

"I'm _never_ getting caught again," Henry said to Denny, who grinned. A good parent would perhaps say, "then don't do it again," but Denny Brooks wasn't _that _good of a parent. He was a criminal who just so happened to have a son.

"Too right you won't, Tyler won't stand for it," he said instead, giving Henry a scowl. "Next time you get caught the punishment will be worse, and knowing _you_ you'll go off and kill the Prime Minister or something."

"Oi!"

Denny looked at the guard with false earnestness. "Just jesting, mate! Sorry," he waved at him before turning back to Henry. "Fucking uptight buggers, aren't they?"

Henry ignored him. "Why are you in such a good mood, anyway," he asked suspiciously.

His father gave him the 'Who? Me?' look that never seemed to work. Especially on Henry. Giving it up, Denny sighed and said, "Tyler's got his knickers in a bunch over a new kid I recruited."

Which Henry knew was reason enough for Denny to be awfully smug. "A new kid?" he repeated, looking hurt. "Replacing me so soon, Den?"

"As if I could get rid you, berk," Denny retorted, leaning back and crossing his legs casually. He gave Henry a sly glare out of the corner of his eye. "He's a rich eighteen-year-old mercenary, and bent as a shepherd's crook. Satisfactory for his age, but then you've broken every young militant record that ever existed."

Henry grinned. "So he's not that impressive, I take it?"

Denny grinned back. "His name is Francis Gabriel, he's the son of an old friend of Tyler's. His father was Philip Gabriel, a snuff boss out of Ireland. I normally wouldn't give a rat's ass about him," his expression turned wolfish, and he leaned forward, "But he annoys the hell out of Tyler."

"Hmm," Henry was thoughtful. "Has he used to firearms yet? The magical firearms?"

"Stop calling it that, will you?" Denny snapped. "People might overhear and think you've gone around the bend. Or that you're just bloody fairy. Magic, aye."

"Yeah, sure," Henry said, pretty much ignoring him. "Well? Did he use them? Did he piss all over himself?"

Denny chortled. "Nearly! Well, the first time. He works well with them, a real Hussar with the rifle. He is a pain though," he admitted. "Too hot-headed, and too reckless. Like all goddamn Irishmen."

"Oh," he said sarcastically. "Send him to nick for a year, shape him up, will you?"

"Funny, kid," Denny said, and then got up. "You've only got a month to go, so don't screw up," he reminded, pointing a finger in his face.

Henry got up to say goodbye. "Like I would endanger my freedom just for a bit of fun."

Denny scowled at him. "You would to spite me, you little shite."

"Fucker," the lad returned, smiling. "And I think you got yourself into this mess, right Denny Brooks? You're a stupid fuck, because I _told _you that you would regret taking me in, didn't I?" He laughed at his father's expression as he was cuffed again by the guard.

Denny's grimace grew worse. "No regrets, Henry Brooks," he said to himself, because Henry had been taken out of the visiting room and was well out of earshot. Denny was glad that he would see the boy soon, as he whispered sadly, "I don't regret it all."


	9. Chapter Eight

A/n: Okay, so this chapter is short because I want to get to the next jump, which means we're closer and closer to catching up with the present. To be honest with you guys, all I wanted to do was sleep all week and ignore this story, but I didn't and I edited it and reworked some things diligently until I couldn't see straight anymore. Even so, if you find a mistake please tell me. Thanks for the reviews, I hope you guys continue to tell me how I'm doing. Enjoy the next chap.

A few Responses: Ncgal: Not much action in this chapter either, unless you count _that _kind of action. This one is mostly about the characters, and how they're starting to _really_ fuck up. Which makes for some good angst *grins*.

Fudge: You're making me hungry!

Amazonia: Hey love, sorry about the other night…major crisis that ended in a chigger assault. Don't even ask. This week has been absolutely awful and I'm glad I'll get to talk to you today. *Lays on you* "Hold me?" Oh, and by the way, I would take Wes Anderson over Hitler's mustache any day. More blond, you see.

Warnings for this chapter: _underage consensual sex_, **slash**, language, and mentions of murder.

* * *

Pistol Whipped

Chapter Eight

Henry heard from the other inmates at the institution, that getting out was a bittersweet, somewhat euphoric event, marked if only for the fleeting sense of freedom. Usually, they said, the first thing they wanted to do once they had left the gates behind, was commit another crime. What were the chances of being caught a second time, after all? Henry thought it was assiduously daft reasoning, and wasn't beaten up for that particular comment only because most of them had forgotten he existed anyway.

Save the fight he'd gotten into with another boy during his first few months at Feltham, Henry had faded into the crowds of inmates as if he were just another delinquent. He supposed he was. Prison reminded him of the streets, for its ability to humble and instill uncommon ignominy in his fellow convicts. It was unlike the streets in a fair few ways, though. For example, the meticulousness of it. He was fed, he was let out to stretch his legs, he was fed again, he was sent to therapy, he was fed, yet again, and finally locked up to go to sleep. The liberty of planning his day had never seemed like such a tiring responsibility before he had come to Feltham, and Henry could appreciate the control taken out of his hands.

Though it had been hard to adapt to being nigh on invisible in prison, he took Denny's advice and accepted it without a fight. Good behavior would allow for Henry to leave sooner, or exactly on time, and he was aching to get back to the manor and to do some work. Funnily enough, Henry thought that he would miss the simplicity of prison. He supposed _that _simplicity was what made people murder again, steal again, rage again…so that coming back was a bit like coming home. Henry was a diamond in the rough, in this instance. Being at Feltham would get him nothing but security, and his desire for accomplishment drove him far more than any of his selfish proclivities. He would, of course, commence with his unlawful acts, but he vowed to never be caught again.

Henry had to admit, upon his first steps out of the gates, that he hadn't quite understood what the inmates had meant about getting out. He knew then, though, that as foolish as the reasoning was, all he could think about was a welcome glass of scotch and a gun in his hand. He had to smile at that, because really, sometimes the people least likely to know better, knew better.

It hadn't been so bad. Talk about prison and how it could be a perilous and embarrassing experience was exaggerated. Tyler had told him that the juvenile institutions were worse than the adult facilities. Henry reckoned that was true, given the giant melting pot of emotional young boys, prone to fury and assault, all stuffed into a building with barbed wire around it. The place had given new meaning to 'serving the bird', because among criminals it was a rite of passage of sorts. Henry had looked at Feltham as a task, not a penance, and the barbed wire as a way to seclude them, and not keep them away from the morally permissible public. Juvenile institutions told what adult prisons didn't. It told Henry he was a danger to society.

He shrugged and looked back at the gates. There was a high probability the government should have locked him away for longer. Those nine months stranded from work and magic had given Henry quite a few ideas. His own promise to Denny not to use any of his tricks to make his stay more comfortable, hadn't bothered him at all. Magic was dependant on the wizard, not the other way around. Henry had cheated though, by transfiguring a pen and paper in his cell. He didn't think Denny would mind, given the extensive sketches for the new guns he had gotten out of it.

A ridiculously immoderate Porsche pulled up, and Henry gathered himself and made towards the car. He got in, thankful for the air conditioned auto that made the outside weather seem sweltering. It struck him as odd then, that it was summer again, but not the summer he had left behind when he had entered the prison. It was such a peculiar thought, that he didn't say anything to Denny, even as they drove away from Feltham.

"Are you back to us, lad?" Denny finally said, after looking at Henry cautiously out of the corner of his eye.

Startled, Henry adjusted his belt and swallowed. "Did you mean to show up late?" he asked, and his voice was scratchy.

"Were you waiting for me?"

"Yeah, no," Henry shook his head, glancing up at his dad for the first time since he had gotten into the car. "I'm sorry. I'm distracted."

He replayed the short conversation mentally, and suddenly realized what Denny had asked him. "Wait, what?" Henry whipped his head up to stare at his father. "What did you mean 'are you back to us'?"

Denny tightened his hands on the steering wheel and shot a nervous glance at him. "Only that you weren't saying much when you got it," he clarified. "What did you think I meant?"

Henry cursed silently for his misunderstanding. When he had envisioned Denny coming to get him, to take him home, he hadn't imagined it would be quite so gauche.

"Nothing," he said quickly. "Don't pay it mind."

Denny snorted, an action so unlike him that Henry's eyebrows rose. "You thought I was giving you a choice?" he said to the road. "You've got one you know."

"I don't want to talk about this," Henry snapped. "I just got out of prison for fuck's sake! How about a, 'Hello, Henry, how are you? Good to have you back mate,'?"

"Hello, Henry," Denny said slowly, smirking. "How are you? Good to have you back…you tit."

The attitude of pensive annoyance Henry had sported since his release broke with Denny's amusement. He laughed like he hadn't done in a while, rolling down his window despite the heat and shaking his head in good humor. Denny relaxed with him.

"How are things?" Henry questioned curiously, leaning back in his seat.

"Good," his adoptive father said, much more easily. "Despite your sentence being a punishment and not any event to celebrate, Tyler's got into his head that there'll be a party when you get home."

Henry preened sarcastically. "Joy," he murmured. "He missed me that much, did he?"

"Aye," Denny grunted, turning a mite too sharply and sending them sideways into the door of the car. "Sorry. He wants to make it some belligerent shindig, so you'd best be prepared."

It wasn't any secret that Denny despised Patrick Tyler's ridiculous parties, where (according to Denny) pomposity ran amuck without any sort of social inhibition. The man usually stood in the corner of the room and sulked during such events. Henry, however, had always been up for Tyler's revelries, simply because the affectation intimidated people and he didn't mind Tyler showing him off. Henry and Denny were both of different opinions, and had agreed to disagree on the matter. Which was why Denny was so surprised when Henry shook his head with exasperation.

"I've got work to do, he _knows_ that," the lad vented angrily. "I've no time for ignorant politicians and toss-pot drug lords."

Denny glanced at him cautiously. "I thought you liked parties," he said, lifting a shoulder.

"Not as such," Henry responded primly. "They were a welcome distraction before, but now they're just a hindrance." Henry stopped and jutted a thumb at the road behind them, obviously meaning the prison, even though they were far away from it by then. "I just spent a year with the future of the world, and honestly, I'm worried for fucking everybody. Do you really expect me to make jolly with the inadvertent creators of such deplorable samples of humanity?"

Denny shook like a startled dog, swinging around to stare at him with wide eyes. "What the bloody fuck-?" he stopped himself and turned back to the highway, rather mystified. "Alright," he said, waving a hand. "Alright mate, I get it," he sighed and cleared his throat. "You've sure grown up in a year."

Henry scoffed. "Puberty, Den," he said, crossing his arms. "It's called puberty."

When they stopped at a light and Denny was able to get a good look at the boy he had adopted, he could agree that puberty had done wonders for Henry mentally and _physically_. The lad wasn't tall by any means, but the gawkiness that was in most boys of his age had gone and left like a whisper, leaving a sort-of young man in its wake. A lean, lithe, _firm_ boy who would most likely be a lush.

As adorable (and Denny would never, ever say that out loud) as Henry had been as a child (except for the lighting people on fire bit which wasn't as endearing to normal parents) the lad sitting beside him had the contours of something gearing up to be beautiful. Henry would no doubt grow to be charmingly pretty, and Denny knew that Henry was aware of his maturing attractiveness. An intelligent, beautiful, exquisitely powerful young man…Denny ached with fright. This was _bad _news.

Not only would he have his hands full with keeping Tyler from ruining the kid, but he would have to beat off perverts and his own son's budding sexual needs. Denny's hands tightened on the steering wheel and he repeated out loud, through gritted teeth, "Budding bloody sexual needs." The words struck fear into his heart.

"What?" Henry asked, having heard him.

Denny bit his lip, and decided to take the plunge. "Do we need to have a talk about," he cleared his throat. "Your, uh, _you know_…."

"What?" the boy repeated, puzzled. "No, I don't know. Talk about what?"

Flopping about a hand as if it were an explanation, Denny gave his son a desperate look. "That," he waved in the direction of Henry's crotch. "Sex. Intercourse. Shagging."

"Oh god!" Henry shouted at him, looking distraught. "_Really_, Den?"

"What?!" Denny yelled back, defensively. "It's about that time when this conversation should be had."

"Not an hour after I get out of prison?" Henry said, making a disgusted face. "Now, son," he mocked, developing a high-pitched voice that didn't sound like Denny at all. "Since you've been in nick we might as well tell you all about shagging so that you're a well-rounded young man."

Denny pursed his lips, looking as though he wasn't going to talk to Henry at all, but then unsealed them with a snap and asked, "Have you rubbed one out, yet?"

"Fuck!" Henry practically convulsed with revulsion, and when Denny started to laugh loudly, he scowled. "Fuck you, goddamn it."

"Not until you know how to do it," Denny said with a grin. "This is how it works, you put your cock-"

"Shut! _Up_!"

.o00o.

Tyler was so happy that he had returned that it made Henry a bit embarrassed for the man. He had always thought Tyler was sort of like a little kid with an assault rifle, but his judgment only now seemed rather honest, considering a great deal of his fellow inmates had shown more restraint than that particular forty-year-old man. Though he generally liked Tyler, for he _had_ provided for him and had given him a place to live, he often found the man frustrating and even more so since his stint behind bars.

"What does he mean by not wanting to have a party?" Tyler asked, his face slightly red. "He loves parties!"

"_He_ is right here, Patty," Henry pointed out from his seat in Tyler's study.

Bo had stolen his lap the moment he'd entered the house, and Henry contented himself with petting him as the dragon fell into a light doze. Bo was still rather small, and according to Tenebres dragons grew slower than humans and other creatures. Apparently a dragon could live for eons, and even though Bo was four years old now, Ten said he was still a baby. The amulet that transferred Bo from place to place was also tricked for disillusionment, which was lucky because Henry reckoned that quite a few Muggles would notice Bo wandering about. Henry reluctantly paid attention to Tyler's rant, when it got a bit too loud and Bo twitched in his sleep.

"I don't understand it!" the man shouted. "I absolutely don't. I'm shocked!"

Henry knew he wasn't angry about a ridiculous party of all things. What Tyler didn't like was that look on Denny's face. The look that said he had won this particular contest for Henry's approval.

"The boy's just come home, Tyler. Leave off, will you?" Denny defended him, and poured a glass of sherry that he gave to Henry.

"You don't get to tell me what to do, Brooks," Tyler snapped back, but sat down at his desk once more.

Henry swallowed the smooth drink and raised an eyebrow. "I really am tired, Patty," he said slowly, and it was obvious he was placating Tyler before he could go off on Denny again. "I haven't got much sleep, you see, I've been fending off frisky inmates."

Tyler looked alarmed, and Denny choked on his drink. He laughed uproariously at their expressions, which were markedly relieved now that they knew the boy was only jesting.

"Do what you will, I suppose," Tyler said, once Henry had sobered. He still seemed rather peeved, and glared into space as Henry turned and saw Denny glower at his boss threateningly. Henry sighed.

A knock came at the door of the study and Denny marched over to open it, ignoring Tyler's grumbled insults with an air of indifference.

"Hallo, Francis," Denny greeted the newcomer. "Come in and meet Henry." He lead the young man inside with a flash of a satisfied grin on his face, obviously gloating in front of Tyler who had scowled heavily when Denny had greeted their guest.

This had to be Denny's new recruit, who Henry remembered was named Francis Gabriel. He was an extremely handsome young man, looking to be around seventeen or eighteen, and rather well-built. He had curly brown hair that was trimmed neatly to the bottoms of his ears, framing bright blue eyes. The structure of his face was odd to Henry, somehow, because it was all sharp lines and swift curves, as if he was drawn with charcoal. Francis seemed to be rather fidgety standing there, especially with Tyler glaring at him. When Francis's curious eyes met his, Henry felt as if he were being dressed down to his bare skin.

The young man stumbled forward once Denny had pointed out that he looked a bit foolish standing there, and he didn't avert his eyes once as he thrust a hand in Henry's face.

"Francis," he introduced, and Henry stared at the fingers just inches from his nose until it dropped. "Gabriel," he finished nervously. "Nice to meet you."

"An Irishman," said Henry, amused. "Wherever did you pick this one up, Denny? I thought Ireland was out of your territory."

"_I _came to Mr. Brooks," Francis said before Denny could explain. "Or, er, your dad. I went to see him when he was in London a few months ago. Needed myself a job, and your dad's name came up."

"Francis's father was an old associate of ours," Tyler extrapolated nonchalantly, still cross. Henry couldn't help but grin.

"Heard you did a bird for stealing," Francis blurted out, looking ashamed when the lad bestowed him with an unimpressed glance. "Er, well, what I meant was, good on you. You know, it's a part of being one of…us." The silence after that less than elegant statement entertained Henry very much. "Glad you're out though," the man finished lamely, and sunk into himself.

Henry outright laughed at him. "Have you met Bo, Fran?" he said, chuckling, moving his hand so that the man could take a look at his dragon.

Francis was startled at the shortening of his name, and then he blushed ridiculously with a pleasant smile on his face. Henry got up, dragging Bo from his lap.

"Can't say that I have I-" he stopped and took several steps back. "What the _bloody fuck _is that?"

Henry laughed as Bo awoke with a disgruntled growl, hissing at Francis indignantly. "What did he say? What did he say?" Bo was spitting. Henry laughed harder.

"It's a dragon, Fran," Henry told him amusedly. "He won't hurt you, don't mind him." He tried to reassure the man, but Bo's hissing and pawing did little to make Francis confident.

A burst of flame erupted from Bo's left nostril, and Henry barely moved the dragon away before Francis's hair caught on fire. He admonished Bo until he calmed, and set him back down on the chair where the little terror curled up in a ball and went right back to sleep. He would have looked a bit like an undomesticated cat had he not took up half of the furniture with his size.

He looked at Francis, whose wide eyes were fixed on Bo. "I thought you said," Henry asked, turning to Denny. "That he did well with the modified guns, Den?"

"He did!" his father retorted defensively, crossing his arms. "But you can't expect him to react well to a dragon of all things."

"You've a _dragon_," Francis said blankly.

"You haven't told him about," Henry flopped a hand. "_You know_."

Tyler scoffed and Denny seemed confused. "What are you talking about?" Tyler snapped, shifting in annoyance.

"Magic!" Henry exclaimed impatiently. "I can't very well go around screaming about it, can I?"

"We told him some of it," Denny grunted and sat down with a long sigh just as Francis turned his head to look at Henry intensely, a kind of awe in his gaze.

"Mr. Brooks told me you created those weapons," he said rather enthusiastically, and Henry decided he liked the bare-faced worship in those blue eyes.

"I did," he nodded and observed the young man closely. "Did you not believe him?" he asked, because it had sounded as though Francis hadn't put much faith in Denny's word.

"No!" Francis said desperately. He was so awkward then that Henry stopped scowling. "I just didn't know you were so young. You must be a genius of some kind. You're around fifteen, I think?"

"Barely fourteen," Tyler corrected, sharing a sharp look with Denny. Henry was glad they weren't squabbling for once, even though he wasn't flattered and he wouldn't tolerate their coddling.

"The structure of the guns is very simple, actually," Henry waved the compliment away. He turned to Tyler and Denny and gave them a pointed look. "So simple, that they have an obvious weakness."

They both grew alarmed. "Do they?" Tyler asked.

"Yes," Henry leaned back in his chair to explain. "Should the power be drained out of the weapons, they would be completely ineffective. There are spells to do this. If, lets say, we mass produce the Apocalypse and the VON, though the weapons are far superior, another wizard could simply create a gun just like it, and cast a drainage curse on the bullets. It would render their modifications useless, but ours as well, bringing us back to using sticks and stones. What I'm saying, basically, is that the guns are susceptible to magic."

"So cast a block on the drainage thing," Denny suggested, and then seemed to have confounded himself. "Can you do that?"

"Yes," Henry affirmed. "But then there's another problem. The power reserves, Den," he ran a hand through his hair before continuing. "The spells I've cast are constant, and take from the closest protuberance of magic (in my case my own). But amber can hold only so much magic before the density of the container shatters under the pressure. I've specifically added seven spells, the limited number, as much as it will hold in the Apocalypse and the VON. Any more and the focus will be destroyed."

"I thought your magic was boundless," Denny asked, widening his hands to illustrate. "What with the constancy thing, remember?"

"Yes, I'm aware of that, Den," Henry snapped. "I need to test how far I can go without making the spells a convoluted mess. Perhaps more connections are needed. What I _want_ to do is experiment with certain chemicals to see how they react to a high density of magic. Which is why, Tyler," he turned to the man with a sharp look. "I need to work, and not party."

"Well," Tyler said, pouring himself a glass of alcohol. "I can't argue with that."

Henry pointed to the decanter. "Can I have another?" he asked, and Tyler handed one over gladly, ignoring Denny's huff. He enjoyed the smooth tingle of the alcohol on his tongue as he listened to Denny give Francis the watered down version of the wizarding world. Suddenly, he sat up.

"Of course!" He exclaimed. "Ethanol!"

"Eh?" Denny said, looking at him blankly.

Henry popped up from his seat, happy now that he'd had his epiphany, and raced out of the room with Bo in his arms. He didn't hear Denny and Tyler round on Francis, for so obviously ogling a thirteen-year-old. Which was fortunate, because if he had, there would have been quite the row between them.

.o00o.

Denny didn't see his son for almost a week after his initial release from prison. He tried not to be offended, considering Tyler saw naught of the boy as well, but when the last day of the week rolled around, Denny decided to make the treacherous journey to Henry's room. Upon entering, he was immediately assaulted by Bo.

"Motherfucker! Henry! Goddamn it, _Henry_!"

"Alright, Bo, leave off. Come on."

The dragon released his hair (and his skull, consequently) and left with a flick of his spiked tail in Denny's face. Henry had emerged from the adjoining room that served as a lab of sorts for his sometimes very dangerous experimenting. Henry looked worse for wear, having apparently been caught up in his work. His hair was messier than usual, if that was possible, and his eyes were red with lack of sleep.

"So this is where you've been," Denny observed mildly. "The cook says you've come down to get meals, but you've no time to visit me, eh?"

Henry came forward, placing a metal rod of some sort on his desk. "Sorry, daddy dearest. I actually expected you to disturb me sooner," he said, shrugging a shoulder.

"Tyler mentioned that we shouldn't bother you," he explained, and rolled his eyes as he ran his hands over the cluttered desk. "He's been in though, hasn't he?"

"Twice," Henry said, going back into the other room, and his father followed. "Both times I nearly blew him to bits, so he made a quick retreat." The lad didn't seem sorry about it at all, much to Denny's amusement.

"Would you like to see what I've been working on, then?" he asked enthusiastically.

For an odd moment, Denny felt as though his son were showing a pretty crayoned picture to him with an open-face full of hope and a need for abject appreciation. But Henry wasn't a little boy anymore, and come to think of it, even at that age the lad had never sought approval through works of art, so Denny shook the thought away and merely smiled.

The lab was a mess, a scorch mark decorated one wall and papers and books were strewn about the floor. Denny grimaced and casually stepped over a pile of goop that could or could not have been radioactive. Best not to know.

"A new gun?" he asked when he saw the goblin metal parts. Henry grinned at him and suddenly there was a massive barrel shoved into his face. The huge gun on the boy's frail shoulder was absolutely comical, and Denny sniggered without restraint.

"May I present…why are you laughing?" Henry shook his head and Denny motioned for him to continue. "The Bacchanalian Bazooka."

Denny blinked, holding back a guffaw. "You made a bazooka," he repeated slowly.

"Not just any bazooka!" Henry said, motioning to the pieces on the table. "An ethanol based, endothermic nuclear arms shooter that self multiplies and is impervious to magic. I needed to make a large prototype so I could experiment with it."

"It's lovely, lad. Just lovely."

"Oh, shove off. Do you want to know how I accomplished such a thing, then?" Henry asked, practically jumping up and down. Bo flew into the room, curious what the noise was about, and landed on the table with a huff. When he saw Denny, however, he hissed threateningly.

"By all means," Denny waved a hand, casting a rather anxious look at Bo, who growled. He didn't know what he'd done to piss the lizard off that time, but he hoped Henry had a leash for the thing. Denny didn't want to have to replace the interior of his car again.

The boy took the bazooka apart, faster than he had ever thought anyone could disassemble a bazooka, and he moved forward to stand at Henry's side as the weapon was quickly separated into pieces.

"It's made like a pistol, really, or a blunderbuss. It's not an oblong sphere at all, see?"

"A giant pistol, Hen," Denny nodded, showing that he understood.

Henry held up the barrel, which was twice the size of a regular stovepipe drum. "Hold it," he commanded Denny.

He was shocked, though he really shouldn't have been, that the barrel itself that looked to be as heavy as a safe felt as if it weighed not a stone.

"Featherweight Charm," Henry explained. "Inside the barrel you'll find two large guns. This is amber, which I usually use to focus my power, and crystal, which has the properties that enabled me to create this weapon, and to modify the others."

Henry motioned to the pipe that went from the end of the barrel to the end of the grip. "Much like a machine gun, the power of the explosion goes through this pipe here, as a filter, then collides with the amber at the end of the gun. There it multiplies the ammunition in front of the bolt. The trigger pulls it too. Inside the grip, we have four things, three of which are common bullets, to stop the guns that use that ammo, and the fourth is a small canister of alcohol in its purest form.

"A small funnel from the canister goes into the amber focus, when the trigger pushes on the pouch. The alcohol hits the amber, which heats up the chemicals I've magically liquefied in the stone, which speeds up the electrons causing rapid and silent motion towards the bolt. The bolt coils and collides with the crystal before the ammo and causes a massive, silent explosion."

Henry handed him the crystal he had used to demonstrate, and went to his chalk board. "Before, With the Apocalypse and the CON," he said, drawing rough sketches of what he had just explained. "I was using too much magic in one amber spell catcher. The ethanol allows for a magic-less reaction, decreasing the amount of magic I have to put into the gun. In fact, the only magic in the Bacchanalian Bazooka is a very small amount in the barrel to speed up the ammo silently. I figured I could make the explosion silent, not the gun itself, and that allowed for less casting."

Denny picked up the ammunition, just as Henry was turning around, and the boy practically ran over to him. "Be careful with that!" he warned, holding both of his hands out.

"What's in it?" he asked, curiously, putting it down.

"Chemicals that react with magic," Henry said, and despite Denny's raised eyebrow, he wouldn't expand on the subject. "Would you like to see a demonstration?"

Denny scratched his chin. "Yeah, alright," he agreed.

Henry gave him the gun, and he wrestled with it a bit until he had it in the appropriate position. At his son's direction, he shot at one of the chairs piled up in the room. The firing of the bazooka was indeed silent, and Denny's body hadn't jolted at all from the recoil. He _had _felt a push against him while he had fired it, though, and he turned to Henry for an explanation.

"I cast a Drainage curse on you, and a Disarming spell," the lad told him. "The push you felt was the gun retracting from the spells. Magic can't stop them now." He motioned toward where the chair had been, and Denny finally noticed that there was no tell-tale ash anymore, but there _was _a freaky looking shadow of the _furniture _instead.

"I tried to get rid of the ash problem," Henry shrugged. "Because it's a right mess, but it created shadows instead. Their essence remained, which is worse than all the ash."

He wasn't paying attention to Henry's explanation, as he touched the shadow on the wall and shivered. How his son was able to remain placid while discussing such a horrible way to kill someone (and even to _Denny_ it was cruel) he didn't think he would ever know. It _was_ ingenious though, and he'd give credit where credit was due.

"As for modified weapons taking out my modified weapons," Henry continued. "All we can do is keep the technicalities of it silent, and pay attention in case a contending gun pops up."

Denny set the stovepipe down and backed away from the wall. "I think you scare the fuck out of me," he said, and Henry laughed. "That's fucking brilliant, lad. Are you going to make the others like this?"

Henry shook his head. "Not with so much power," he said.

"How about making a big one of those guns, or turn the ammo into one large bomb?"

"It's already been done, Den," Henry told him, amused enough that Denny was a bit frightened. "It was called the A-bomb."

"Well," Denny swallowed. "Fuck me."

Henry grinned.

.o00o.

There were many things Henry would never admit to. For the sake of his reputation (as a completely unrepentant criminal) Henry kept quiet on quite a bit of his personal information lest he look weak in the eyes of some nonexistent foe. One of his weaknesses, had a lot to do with what made him strong. Henry liked guns just a bit too much. He liked the mechanics of them, the cruelty and the power of them. He would never admit that his love for firearms was slightly unhealthy, and made him look at times, quite deranged.

The other thing that Henry knew he wouldn't confess, at least not now, was that he was having some trouble with growing up. To be more specific, Henry was at the age where a strong wind left him hot and bothered. The newness of it frightened him, and his reaction was at times uncontrollable and distracting. There was nothing he hated more than something as normal as physical needs, especially ones that took him away from his work and filled his mind with less than innocent thoughts. What was worse, was that Henry found that most of his dreams featured him being attracted to certain types of people. He dreamt most often of men.

He had no idea what Denny thought about homosexuals. The Durlseys had despised them (along with everyone else) and were known to call certain flamboyant men on the telly poofs and other such derogatory names. Henry had never given it much thought, until he found himself looking at a man and feeling himself flush with arousal. He supposed it might have more to do with the hormones. Being fourteen was trying in that way, every book said as much, but what the books hadn't told him was exactly how badly it would effect him. And not just in the sexual sense, either.

Lately he noticed his shortness of temper and his tendency to develop cheek (more cheek than usual) with his guardians. They had an understanding air about them, that told Henry they had expected his teenage disposition from the moment they had taken him in. He was glad for their understanding, at times, but often grew angry when that knowing look insinuated Denny and Tyler knew more about him than he did. That was when Henry was less than gracious.

With his inevitable impudence came the fear of being kicked out. It was an irrational phobia that Henry still embraced, even after all the years at Tyler's manor. He often thought of where he would go should Tyler decide to repudiate him. He would likely go to the Weasleys, the first people to ever care for him, and even though he had ceased contact with them after they had visited him in prison, he knew they would always leave their door open for him should he need to come back. That particular plan B always made Henry feel guilty, and then Denny would ask him what was wrong, and the entire mess would happen all over again.

His sexual needs could wait, he told himself. There was things to be done and no distraction like arousal would divert him. Henry dealt with the problem as he did everything else that haunted or bothered him; he ignored it. When that didn't work, he went to the books for advice. The literature merely suggested he get himself off daily and refrain from intercourse. Abstinence would ensure Henry wouldn't get anyone up the duff…which when he thought about it, didn't matter too much, since most of his fantasies involved men. Older men.

At the same time as wanting to ignore his hormonal debacles, Henry wanted to experience sex just to be sure he wasn't missing anything, and the opportunity came in the form of Francis Gabriel. The young man was so obviously smitten with him and ridiculously ashamed of it, but oh so close to the precipice of throwing the towel in and ravishing Henry like he had wanted from the first time he ever saw the boy. Francis, who made eyes at Henry when ever he was around even when Denny was in the room, desiring him in plain sight of a dad who just so happened to be one of the most capable criminals in Britain.

Francis Gabriel, though a fool in love, certainly had balls.

Satisfaction could be found in such a partner, considering Francis was rich and enamored of Henry, and for months after his release from nick, Henry weighed the pros and cons of starting an affair of sorts with the young man. That was when the ever in control, systematic, and holier-than-thou Henry Brooks went a bit mad. Convinced that _one_ sexual encounter would fulfill him for life, he began to plot his way closer to Francis. It wasn't hard, considering the man actively sought him out.

"Can you hand me that metal there, Fran?" Henry asked him, and when Francis floundered he pointed to the piece. "That one there."

"This is a slide?" Francis queried, looking at it closely before handing it over.

Henry gave him a distracted nod. "Yeah," he shook the hair out of his eyes. "You're going on that hit with Denny tonight, aren't you?"

Looking uncomfortable, Francis said, "Yes, sorry." He rubbed a hand across his stubbly chin. "I tried telling Tyler you should come along but he thought it was too dangerous."

Henry sighed and attached the new slide to the pistol. Tyler didn't think it was too dangerous, rather he thought Henry wouldn't be able to keep his head on the job. Apparently ten-year-olds were more apt at killing than teenagers. Francis spoke as though he agreed with Tyler, and no doubt hadn't asserted much that Henry be present that night. _Cute,_ he thought sarcastically.

"S'alright," he reassured the nervous man anyway. He finished up his work and turned around to grab the polishing rag, only to find Francis close behind him. Henry started and drew back.

"You know," Francis said as if he weren't intruding into his space. "Tyler's lucky Denny found you." He reached over Henry, the heat of his body almost suffocating, and picked up the finished pistol. "This is genius."

Henry nodded, leaning against the worktable casually. "Uh huh, though as lucky as he is he hardly appreciates me. Or my work."

Francis chuckled. "I find that hard to believe," he said, waving a hand around the lavish bedroom.

"He doesn't, not really," Henry teased, smiling slyly. "But then most people rarely get what they want."

"Some people do."

Henry licked his lips. "If they're bold."

His first kiss was more of an assault rather than something magical. It wasn't sweet or gentle, and it wasn't smooth. It was a mess of teeth and tongue and hands, and Henry immediately thought _well fuck, this is nice. _He returned the slobbering promptly and mimicked the paths of Francis's hands. His hips were digging into the worktable painfully, and Henry pushed him away for a moment.

"Ouch," was all he said, before Francis was on him again, and suddenly they were on the floor, and suddenly Henry's mind exploded into delicious showers of light. The sight of Francis on top of him burned him so beautifully he wanted to scream. In this position, Henry thought he would be happy forever. If he had any doubts that perhaps he wasn't gay before then-he certainly didn't now.

Lust made him reach for Francis's jeans, quickly unclasping them and pulling them down. Francis's hands took over and his cock sprang forth hot and hard. The young man's assets weren't so big that Henry was intimidated, but big enough that his own youthful erection couldn't compare. At fourteen, Henry assured himself, he still had some growing to do. Henry felt his hips arch up in the suspense of what was to come. Fortunately, this allowed for Francis to move his hands to unclasp his own jeans and pull them down roughly. Abruptly, a cock met his in one long caress, wet and silky and wonderful. Francis rutted against him, their skin catching and tugging, until he reached down and gave them both a harsh tug, and Henry cried out.

"God!"

"Fuck!"

His seed spilled over Francis's hands, before the man came with a long drawn out moan and pressed his pelvis close to Henry's crotch, so close that his wetness leaked out of his shaft and traveled in tiny globs down his own cock. Panting with his orgasm, which had felt a bit like shooting a gun, Henry smiled up at Francis sweetly.

Francis kissed him again, pressing close despite the mess, and Henry moaned in appreciation. A hand suddenly shoved itself in the back of his loose pants, spreading their come and whispering delicately over Henry's hole. It was inside him then, and he couldn't help it…Henry came again. Francis sunk his finger deeper and pressed against something that made his toes curl, and continued pressing until he was a shuddering mess. Leaving off when the finger began to hurt, Francis raised himself up and looked down at Henry with a completely satisfied smile.

Henry ran a hand though his hair, breathing heavily. "Holy fuck," he gasped out.

Francis quite liked kissing him, it seemed, and the caress of his tongue was slow and wet and heated. When he pulled away, he said, "I fancy you, you know."

He grimaced, and was silent for a time. "I think I've got that, thanks, Fran," he said finally, and sat up on his elbows. Francis got off of him and they fixed themselves quickly. "Are you really as rich as Tyler says you are?" Henry blurted out.

He had never thought that Francis Gabriel's laughter could be intoxicating, but it was, due to the sex or Henry's attraction to him, he didn't know. He thought that maybe he had been wrong with his theory, because he couldn't imagine not being able to experience what he had just experienced again. _Fuck abstinence_, Henry thought as he straddled an amused Francis, _I deserve to have some fun_.

.o00o.

Denny was nervously shuffling beside him. He turned to glare at the source of the vexing noise every few minutes, hoping it was a satisfactory way of telling the man to calm down. The bench tilted in Denny's direction a bit, his weight heavier than Henry's. His eyes were on the playground.

Henry was glad to be there, given Tyler's distrust in him doing any sort of job. He had finally broken the man down, however, and he was waiting with Denny to meet a contact who Tyler assured was trustworthy. Henry didn't care what the business was about, he was more happy to be out of the manor and _doing _something. He could have wished for his father to be less uppity about whatever had bothered him, but Henry supposed beggars couldn't be choosers.

A shrill scream broke the silence, and Henry snapped his head in the direction of clamor, breathing a sigh of relief when he realized it was only a child and his father. The man seemed to be imitating a rather large beast, as he climbed onto the gym and tickled his son into a mass of giggles. Denny made a sound in the back of his throat that could have been annoyance.

"Look at that, then," he said gruffly, and Henry glanced at the family.

"Yeah?" he nodded and stared at Denny. "You're being sour, aren't you?"

"Not at all," Denny objected, crossing his legs. "I was only wondering what you thought about, when you saw that."

Henry turned to the laughing bloke and his kid and then let out a strangled laugh. "Den," he said, "Are you getting all sentimental on me?"

"I'm not!" Denny said quickly, as if Henry would begin laughing again. A cold breeze suddenly picked up, and Henry turned his head toward it as his hair caught and his skin tingled from the chill.

"I only ask because you haven't experienced it before. Having a father, I mean," Denny explained conversationally.

Henry scowled. "I don't know what you want me to say," he said crossly. "But I'm not going to say it."

"I only want to know," Denny told him, raising a placating hand. "Because I _am_ your father now, and I don't know how well you like that, is all."

He turned away and looked back at the gym. "If I didn't want it," he said, frustrated. "I wouldn't have gone with you. I don't know why you want to bring it up."

Denny sighed wearily. "Because you're getting older, and I don't want you to hate me," he confessed. "Tyler says that most teenagers hate their parents."

Laughingly, Henry rubbed a hand across his hair and shook his head. "Tyler doesn't know what he's talking about. He doesn't even talk to Constance and she's seventeen."

"It's because she hates him," Denny pointed out. "The divorce made her hate him."

"Tyler was a bad father," Henry snapped. "That's the only reason why, Den. And don't even try to say you're doing wrongs with me, because I'm perfectly fine, see?" he opened his arms and looked down at himself. "I haven't got a thing to feel badly about."

Denny jutted a thumb towards the gym. "What about them, then?" he said. "You said to me once, that you hated some people because they had what you didn't."

Straightening up with a small, bitter laugh, Henry shoved his hands into his pockets and huffed. "I was nine then, you know. I envied everyone at the time," he stopped and clenched his jaw. "What do you want to hear, Den? That I'm grateful for my parents being dead, because it made me who I am? Which takes my faults out of your hands, right mate?"

His adoptive father turned away from him. "You're a little bastard, you know that?" he said.

Henry chuckled honestly then, and slapped his father on the back. "And you're a poof who cries about daddies."

Grunting, Denny adjusted his posture, and like the crack of a whip, retorted, "Calling the kettle black, aren't you?"

Henry gaped at him. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" he asked quickly, his heart pounding.

"Think I'm blind, do you?" Denny snapped. "I didn't want to hate that Irishman, but now I've got to on principle."

"You won't kill him," he said severely. "You _won't_ kill him, Denny."

The man waved a hand at him impatiently and scowled. "I'm not going to, lad. I can be sensible about this."

Henry had no doubt that Denny was a sensible man. He was a meticulous, hard-working person, that rarely showed prejudice or opinion. In this case, however, his son was being molested (and Denny _would _think it was a violation) by an older young man in their own home. Henry didn't trust Denny's promise, because in the last two years he had taken on being Henry's father with more concentration than he showed his work. And that was saying something.

Numerous times, Tyler and Denny would fight over the distraction Henry posed for Denny when he was supposed to be working. It had more to do with Tyler's want to be closer to the lad than his father, but there was truth in the argument. Denny met with people, killed people, and assaulted people, per usual, but his heart wasn't as in it as it once was. He had a son to take care of now.

Denny would protect him no matter what, of that he was sure of, and if Francis Gabriel so much as had one hair in any plans of foul-play, he would kill the young man. He would completely destroy him.

"He won't hurt me," Henry said to his father. "I'm not being coerced into anything."

Denny frowned, the breeze playing with his dark hair and tickling his scalp. He scratched at it in annoyance. "Is it just, you know," he began, clearing his throat. "Sex and all, or are you…?"

"Homosexual?" Henry finished for him, feeling his insides squirm a bit. He turned away and couldn't look at Denny. "I don't know. I think so, but I can't be sure." He noticed that Denny couldn't look at him either, and exhaled quickly before staring at the side of his father's face. "Does it bother you?"

Denny was silent for a while. "To be honest? Yes," he said. "But I've never really known a poof before, so I'm unsure of myself, you see."

"I do see," Henry said.

The park was clearing of children and their parents, and Denny spotted their contact beside the public toilets, but didn't get up to greet him. Instead, he coughed a little and sighed. "Just give me some time, lad," he said to Henry. "You've caught me a mite off guard."

Henry got up and frowned. "Well," he responded bitingly. "I'm sorry to have surprised you. Take all the bloody time you need."

Denny merely stared up at him wearily, before rising himself. "That's him," he shook a head in the direction of their contact. "Let's go."

Following in the wake of his father, Henry grasped the inside of his coat pockets tightly and felt his heart calm from the fury that had so suddenly reared up inside him. He tried not to be disappointed in Denny's words, tried not to be hurt, but despite Henry's reserved countenance, he was fourteen and more fragile than he felt he had ever been. He looked back at the gym and saw that the father and son were gone, and wondered what it meant for him and Denny.


	10. Chapter Nine

A/N: Henry is nearing fifteen in this chapter. A lot has happened in the last year and a lot _will _happen in the next two chapters. It will be intense. The next chapter is the chap I really want to get to, and that one will be much longer than this one. Just a fair warning, I'm going to be speeding this up quite a bit. As always, thank you all for reviewing and sticking with the story. Thanks also to the wonderful people adding this to their favorites. Can you believe we're almost at a hundred reviews for this story?! Me loves you all.

A few responses: Ncgal: no need to worry, darling. The gun talk is sort of inconsequential at the moment, so don't get a headache trying to reckon it out (like I did). Not much action at all in this chapter, but the next one will be pretty thrilling, I promise you that!

Thank you to: Amazonia, for using reverse psychology on me in order to accomplish this chapter. Without your steadfast advice and your invaluable friendship, this chapter and every one after it would have rendered me a vegetable and the world a black oblivion (if you consider existentialism, and all) what was I talking about? Oh, thank you my love. You're amazing.

Warnings for this chapter: drug use, mentions of attempted rape, underage sex (slash), violence, and foul language.

* * *

Pistol Whipped

Chapter Nine

Francis had assured him that they would get in, but Henry found that he was more worried about Tyler or Denny catching him as he snuck out. They had both determined that keeping their relationship (of sorts) a secret would be prudent. Not only because of their difference in age but more having to do with Henry's guardians; who happened to be, unfortunately, Britain's most powerful mob boss and his right-hand man. However self-appointed they were as his caretakers, they took their jobs seriously, and Henry didn't want Francis dead. Mostly, he was glad to have something to himself that he alone could control. A boyfriend suited his needs perfectly, although he wasn't partial to sneaking out of the manor like a common harlot.

He loved to dance though, just as Francis did, and they frequented many clubs in London for both the alcohol and the chance of a night away from overlords and overzealous watchers. Francis had confessed to Henry that he enjoyed the rush of being so very rebellious, something he hadn't experienced in his own father's household. In his enthusiasm for their forbidden fun, Francis spent his money a grand at a time. He doted on Henry with clothes and trinkets, most of which were purchased for the mutual benefit of Francis being able to see Henry in tight clothes and fits that flaunted his body. Henry had never before been attracted to the scenes in which Francis so belonged, but his passion for it was infectious, and soon Henry was a common sight at the places he had once thought asinine and insipid.

So far, they had managed to keep their affair from Tyler, thanks to Denny, who knew about them and did not approve, but kept quiet about it anyway. Henry thought that he was tempting fate by sneaking out, or at least coaxing the ire of his father. He wanted to go out though, and had set his sights on looking and feeling wonderful despite the consequences.

He was wearing the pants Francis had bought him, dolled up in his finest and not at all looking his appropriate age. It helped that he had grown quite a bit in the last year, and though he wasn't tall, he wasn't short either. Henry speculated that he had never looked so pound note-ish until Francis had come into the picture. As he shimmied out of his window, straightening to manage his duffle coat, he smiled and reminded himself to thank the man later. Francis was waiting for him on his bike, and he briefly slipped his visor up to grin at Henry.

"Ready?"

He grabbed the helmet that was handed to him and swung a leg over the back.

"As I'll ever be," he said lightly, feeling his heart pound with adrenaline. Francis started up the motorbike again, and Henry closed his eyes and felt the wind pass through him.

.o00o.

He was nervous, he could admit that at least. Worried? Not as such. Deathly afraid for his adoptive son? Maybe. Denny stood outside of Henry's room, knowing the boy wasn't there, knowing he had left for the night but certainly not happy about it. Not happy at all. He didn't want to even imagine Tyler's reaction to Henry being out, unattended, doing who knew what on the streets of London. It was good goddamn thing then, Denny thought sarcastically, that Tyler didn't have any idea.

Especially if he wasn't privy to Henry being out with Francis Gabriel, and Denny sure as hell wouldn't be the one to tell him.

Denny wasn't sure when it had started, only that one day Henry had been perfectly fine, as clever and mordant as usual, and then the next-a new beast had suddenly emerged. Denny could very well say he _hated_ this Henry, hated him in a concerned sort of way, and honestly _despised _Francis Gabriel more than he had ever claimed to loathe anyone. The man was a menace, and now Henry was changing into something Denny didn't recognize and didn't like.

At fourteen, almost fifteen (where had the years gone?) the boy was suddenly more interested in the various scenes of the rich and the famous. Out with Francis at all hours, coming home at times in a daze, smelling of sex and drink and then sleeping until the early afternoon. Denny wouldn't begrudge anyone a bit of fun, but Henry was young, he was a kid, and kids shouldn't be doing the things Henry was. He thought, a little sadly, that he was probably the worst parent ever. He deserved some sort of award for being so very bad.

Francis, however, had done more than simply provoke Denny, he provided everything Henry could need to be a vapid lush. The clothing was certainly shocking, and made his son look not only like a slag but a _gay _slag. Giving Denny time to come to terms with his son's sexuality did not mean parading about in less than conservative garb. He had barely spoken to Henry for that reason, because speaking with the lad made him uncomfortable. More and more, as Henry grew, he had the disassociation of his gender about him, because the boy was pretty and slim and bright-eyed. Denny often times didn't like what he saw when he looked into that face, that face that could have been a woman's.

In other words, the lad was a trollop, and a ponce, and Denny confessed to himself that his son would have looked good had he not been his son, and he admitted that he had a problem with homosexuals. He stood in front of the door, and nodded.

"I have a problem with homosexuals," he said to the woodwork, and let out a breath of frustration. "Fuck."

What was Henry _thinking_? The lad was smart enough to know that fourteen-year-old boys that dressed just so and ran about with people like Francis Gabriel were only to be _pitied_. He knew that young people prone to such frivolities were inane and positively uncivilized! And those were the lad's words, not his own, and until Francis had come into the picture Henry was very much of that opinion. Though Henry was a very intelligent young man it seemed that he had lost his cleverness to the temptation of youth.

And Denny didn't _know _this person. He wasn't familiar with this part of his son. To top it all off, he wasn't sure if he _wanted _to understand, and so he remained in the unmoving median of ambivalence and watched his son disappear into the night to engage in less than reticent merrymaking. It was all so fucked up.

He ran a hand through his graying hair in upset, hearing footsteps approach, the click of boots against the floor, and the jangle of a set of keys. Denny turned around quickly, checking his watch. It was just past six in the morning, and his son stood before him like a deer caught in the headlights, swallowing audibly.

That was when Denny noticed the lad's outfit. His jaw dropped, and he abruptly shouted, "You're going to get raped!"

Henry stopped in front of him, alarmed. "Pardon?" he croaked meekly.

Realizing he'd gone loony for a moment there, Denny shuffled and raised a shoulder. "I meant to say," he started, coughing a little. "That this," he waved a hand at Henry. "Is inviting uninvited attention. You know."

Henry frowned, opening his door and marching into the bedroom while wrenching his coat off forcefully. "I'm sure I don't, Den," he retorted through gritted teeth.

Denny followed him in, sitting on the sofa uncomfortably. He was unprepared for the conversation he would have to have with the boy, and one look at Henry told him the lack of preparedness was mutual.

"I'm not sure what you're doing, lad," he started, hesitating for a moment. "I know you've been out and about, with Francis I suppose…."

"You never had a problem with it before," Henry felt compelled to point out, crossing his arms and staring down at his father. "You could have lectured me months ago."

"I know," Denny sighed. "It's just that you're different now, so different, that I'm not sure how to deal with you any more."

"You don't have to deal with me at all," Henry said angrily, and cracked his neck in a nervous jolt before he chomped down hard on his lip. His eyes were bloodshot.

"That's not what I meant," Denny told him, as casually as he could. "You're not a problem, not at all, it's just," he suddenly straightened and leaned forward, "You're only a kid. You're only fourteen."

He hated how pathetic he had sounded saying that, and Henry, who had taken his serious words standing defensively with his arms crossed, suddenly smiled.

"Aw," the lad teased. "You're a concerned parent!" he sidled up next to Denny on the sofa and slung an arm around his shoulders. "That's touching, Den, honestly."

Denny pushed the boy off of him. "Stupid fuck," he insulted, and took a careful look at Henry. "You alright?"

The boy waved an errant hand that made Denny feel like his son was in bigger trouble than he thought. "I'm fine, fine," he said nonchalantly. "You don't need to _worry_, Den." Henry shook his shoulders a bit with a grin, and Denny turned away from that dazed green glare.

"Oi," Henry close to bellowed. "You hear me, then? You don't need to worry that I'll get raped or what have you. Don't you think I can hold my own?"

_Not like this_, Denny thought, but said instead, "You're only fourteen."

"All fourteen-year-old kids go a little crazy. I'm growing up, Den!" he exclaimed, and opened his hands in front of his face in a sardonic show of histrionics.

They were silent for a moment, and then Henry nodded somewhat decisively and asked, "Has Tyler been up in arms as well?"

Denny actually growled in return. "Don't bring Tyler into this. You've got _my _last name and not his, and I'll tell you this, the bastard's interest in you as of late is starting to disturb me!"

"_Eh_?" his son said, his eyebrows scrunched together, and Denny very nearly sobbed. _He's too fucking handsome! He's going to get raped! Why didn't I adopt an _ugly _kid? _

Henry suddenly snapped his fingers, successfully pulling Denny out of his melancholy thoughts. "Oh," Henry smiled. "You mean the whole attracted to me thing."

"You're _aware _of his perverse desires?"

"I wouldn't call them perverse," Henry said warily, and got up to change the rest of his clothes. "He's just interested. Always has been, really, it's only recently that he developed an unfortunate attraction."

"Well, _I'd _say it's perverse!" Denny argued waspishly. "Fancying a kid. It's completely disgusting."

"Francis and I are fucking. Is that disgusting, then?"

Denny frowned, realizing exactly what the boy was asking him. "I have a problem," he began hesitantly, "With homosexuals, and it's only because I've never _known_ any, you see-"

Henry poured a glass but drank from the bottle instead. "I doubt that, Den," he interrupted with alacrity.

"Yes, yes. But now my boss is turning out to be a poof. Nothing against poofs, Henry," he said quickly, raising a defensive hand. "But I'm more disturbed by him than I am of you. Not that I'm _that _disturbed, lad. Is that scotch?"

Nodding with a small amused smile, Henry handed his father the decanter and a glass.

Denny poured it dry and downed it quickly. "You and Francis being…_together_, isn't my problem," he started again, still nervous. "It's likely you could have waited until you were _old_ enough to get into this torrid affair, but I'm not complaining, you know! I'm not. You could have returned Tyler's affections and ended up in _his_ bed."

"I wouldn't," Henry said, glancing at Denny from underneath his lashes. He grabbed up a bowl of cashews and another glass. "Tyler's too volatile. Too possessive."

"And Francis isn't the same, lad?"

"Francis is easier to relax."

Denny glared at his smirk, grimacing at the innuendo, before hording the cashews without the intention of allocation and motioning to the bottle. "I need another drink."

"I'll be extra careful, Den," Henry tried to reassure, pulling a different shirt on and sitting back down again on the sofa. "And besides, neither of them realize that I could dispose of them with a snap of my fingers."

"So, should I be worried for poor Francis's heart?" Denny asked with a small chuckle. He felt a bit better, which could have been the talk they'd finally had, or the alcohol. He didn't much care which was which.

"Maybe when he outlives his usefulness," Henry said casually.

"That's a bit cold, Hen."

"What is, is, Den. But listen," he leaned forward, seeming excited about something. "There's a method to my madness. I've hit the proverbial jackpot at these clubs you despise so much."

"I wouldn't hate them if there was a fit _bird_ or two there," Denny muttered, but his son ignored him.

"E," Henry said happily, as if he were promoting a lavish new car.

"What?"

"The new drug on the streets is E. Heroin hasn't been so popular since the seventies rolled by and now there's something else making the market. Tyler will be happy to know I've already made the connections for him," he finished brightly. Denny was skeptical, but trusted Henry's judgment.

"As long as there's a profit in it," he responded coolly, and his words were slightly muffled by the food in his mouth. "What exactly does this drug do?"

Henry shrugged one shoulder. "They call it ecstasy, so you can imagine it causes an intense feeling of euphoria. It's also incredibly fatal. A few nights ago a man took the drug and passed out. An hour later, he was an downright vegetable," he stopped a lifted both shoulders. "People take the drug anyway."

"Sounds pleasant," Denny observed wryly.

"I haven't taken it. I know Francis has, but he seems to be fine. I'm sure Tyler will be pleased to know it's rare, strong, and monetarily stable."

"Have you told him yet?"

"No," Henry said, and gave him another one of those one-armed hugs. "I figured my dad might be proud and would want to tell him first."

"I'm flattered, really, Henry," Denny retorted, stoic. He pushed the arm off of him and got up to leave.

"Don't worry, yeah? I'm safe and all," Henry said to his back, and he turned to see his son put his head in his hand, looking comfortable and cavalier on the sofa. "Francis makes sure I'm alright, even though I can absolutely kick arse if needed."

Denny felt his heart constrict slightly, and before he walked out he couldn't help but turn around again and deliver a stony glower to the lad. The expression articulated everything, that he was still worried, still hesitant, and not at all appeased. It also spoke ill of mercy, should Henry find himself in any sort of self-made trouble. Henry paused and then nodded almost imperceptibly, and Denny left the room. He took the cashews with him.

.o00o.

"Well?"

"Yes?"

He sighed in fond exasperation. "What do you think, Bo?"

Bo turned his head about to inspect the finished product, his bright eyes turning violet with wonder. "What is it, human father?"

Henry rolled his eyes and sat down on the sofa again, beside Bo, who immediately commandeered his lap. He obligingly ran a hand down the dragon's back.

"It's a security system," he explained. "See how the screen is showing the orchard? Watch this."

Henry reached out and touched the bottom of the monitor, and the scene did not change except for the web surrounding the orchard. It was interlaced with strange symbols called ruins, that Henry had needed Waffling to help him with.

The old man called upon Henry every once and a while, mostly to pressure him into joining one of Europe's prestigious magic schools, and Henry was tired of fending the man's enthusiasm for academia off. He did, however, appreciate the books Bert gave him every month, to ensure he kept studying. The inveterate theoretician had found potential in Henry, which meant the lad's actions were bound to reflect on _him_. Henry refrained from telling Bert that it wasn't necessarily a good thing.

The magical security system was rather easy to modify. What Henry had had infinite difficulty with was the wards. He wasn't too sharp at warding, it took patience and time, both of which Henry did not have. Bert had walked him through the process though, and the plans had been finished by the end of the month. Bo was as impressed as was possible for a dragon who thought about little else but food, sleep, and Henry.

"It keeps us safe?" Bo asked drowsily. "I think it's wonderful, but what do we have to keep safe from?"

"Well," Henry began, petting Bo lightly. "Tyler's an important man now, my dear. That means he has many enemies."

"My dragon father is an important dragon," Bo said, yawning. "But _he_ doesn't have enemies. Everyone respects him."

Henry nodded to no one in particular and stared at the window, startled that it had become night while he wasn't looking. "Humans are different, Bo. They feel things differently."

"Oh, see, I know that," said the dragon, and he stared up at Henry perspicaciously. "You humans are always asking why. All of the time. _Dragons_ don't ask why!"

Henry smiled at him. "That's because all your kind thinks about is gold, sleeping," he stopped and tickled Bo, "and eating!"

Bo swatted his hand away with his tail and snuffled. "Why does Tyler have enemies?"

"Ah," Henry laughed teasingly. "I thought you said dragons don't ask why?"

Bo gave him an insulted glare and his tail whipped around threateningly. "That's not what I meant and you know it!" he pouted.

"I'm sorry, my dear," Henry apologized, amused. "Tyler has enemies because he has power. Those that have power must then have contenders, people interested in taking that power away from him."

"If a dragon has gold the gold is the dragon's," Bo objected primly.

"And that is why," Henry said with a wink. "You are a dragon and I am not."

Bo sneezed fretfully. "I don't understand. I doubt I ever will."

Henry stroked the warm scales until Bo fell into a light slumber. The security system had another purpose besides protecting Tyler. Waffling's well...waffling had come in handy a fair few times, but in this particular instance, Henry was lauding the man for his tendency to boast. One of Bert's old students, per say, had been Albus Dumbledore, and through his jabbering tutor Henry knew quite a bit about the man. He was no doubt a person to tread carefully around, being the defeater of Grindelwald and the venerable headmaster of Hogwarts.

The main reason Henry had changed his signature to escape his letter was because of Dumbledore. History told more about the man than anything. He was a light wizard, plagued with altruism and humanitarian ideals. Henry thought at first that they were a lot alike, and then of course, he learned of Dumbledore's friendship with his parents. Assumptions were dangerous, but Henry had a hunch that Dumbledore knew more about his parents murder, given the Order of the Phoenix and the fact that his parents had fought alongside the old wizard. He had a hunch that Albus Dumbledore was always in the thick of things, and so, Henry would remain out.

Dumbledore's power was legendary and Henry had a few tricks up his sleeve to contend with that, but neither would he fight head to head with the so obviously formidable man. He needed to plan and wait, for the moment when everything would fall and render Henry the undisputed victor. That was where he and Dumbledore were alike. Where the likeness ended, however, was at the means of which they would utilize to succeed.

As a light wizard, liked by many and trusted almost implicitly, Dumbledore's power was in magic and in political acumen. With a smile and a few happy promises, Dumbledore had ruled since Grindelwald's defeat without contest. The only champion from the other side of things had been Voldemort, and he had been rash and destructive. His violence was equal to Dumbledore's benevolence. Henry had both advantageous skills, and he knew how to use the power without being of an excess or a deficit. And no one would expect it, they thought he was dead, didn't they? What had Bert said?

"Tragedy, just a tragedy. Potter ran away and was never seen again, it's awful, isn't it?" Bert had looked distraught indeed. "But we mustn't harp on past misdeeds, there is a reason for everything, you know."

Henry thought there was no doubt that there was a reason for everything (he was a firm believer in the faith) and yet, when Bert had delivered that piece of advice, talking to Henry about himself (though he didn't know it) Henry had felt sad. Sad at what could have been, and what was. He vowed not to think on it again, because it was not productive or of terrible import. Men wasted away on what ifs, and Henry was no ordinary man. He'd had enough dismalness on the streets, and now there he was...in a lavish house with meals and money to boot. There was too much to be grateful for, to be so very dreary.

Bo twitched in his sleep and rolled over, and Henry smiled and stroked his stomach. He looked back at the security system, knowing it would do little to keep powerful wizards like Dumbledore out, but at least the monitor would provide Henry with ample warning. Protection had been on Henry's mind as of late. He wasn't sure why, but dreams assaulted him at night, where people he respected and almost loved were murdered or injured terribly.

He turned his stare away from the fire, and his eyes landed on the letter he had been threatening to write for two days. Bert had taught him that spells could be carried through physical objects, and Henry was hoping to send the letters off to the Weasleys...only, he didn't quite know what to say. Having cut ties with them, he thought it might be strange for him to begin a correspondence once more. At least, to Henry, it made him out to be a bit of a berk. But it was necessary, because the dreams would not relent and Henry was worried.

He reached over to the nightstand and pulled the parchment towards him, careful to not wake Bo. The only lines he had were:

_Dear Mr. and Mrs. Weasley,_

_Enclosed you will find letters to Ron, Ginny, Fred and George. Will you send them through the post for me?_

It was awful heading, because Henry sounded too formal and all the more a pretentious git in writing. He knew they wouldn't chuck the letters out, because they hadn't discarded the one he'd sent a year ago, but he hoped they would be prompt about it, given the itch he had that told him this particular endeavor needed to happen soon. The other letters to the Weasley children were done, dreadfully short and full of apologies, but done. He had yet to finish his letter to Molly and Arthur though, and it proved to be the hardest to compose.

Henry placed the parchment aside with a sigh, and reached over to grab Francis's cigarettes. That particular habit was one Henry did not want to kick. Despite Denny's bitching about it, Henry enjoyed the smokes, and Francis was glad to have a companion in his unabashed yen.

He didn't much want to think about Francis, but most of the time it was all Henry did. The sort of relationship they had was distracting, and likely a potential disaster. He knew it would end and that love was fleeting if not entirely fake. Not wanting it to end was what made that particular admission hard to bear. Francis was good to him, where he didn't have to be, and he risked Denny and Tyler's wrath to be with him. A sacrifice indeed.

Henry felt bad for saying what he had said to Denny, about disposing of Francis. It was dishonest, and Denny's belief that his coldness was sincere bothered him. Did they all think he was a monster? That he was completely, irrevocably, amoral and dissociated from the world? Not so dramatic, probably, but Denny hadn't seemed surprised. Hadn't doubted him. It hurt more than Henry could understand. He blamed his emotions that morning on his intoxication, his lack of sleep, and the rousing night he had experienced with Francis out in London. He blamed it on his affinity for over-thinking things to the point of derailment.

Francis had told him to let loose a bit, and have some fun. Henry had followed his advice because Francis was the _only_ person to have ever said that to him. He thought he might be a little in love with the idea of Francis Gabriel. A free, pulchritudinous young man that had no restraints but the ones of his own making. Henry corrected himself, because that love was more like envy, and Henry was intimately familiar with envy. It wasn't something everyone could understand, though he thought Denny might have grown up a bit like him, in some small way. He knew that Francis couldn't possibly empathize.

"_Why did you go with Denny that day?" Francis had asked, turning to look at him with his head propped up in his hand. "It's been bothering me for awhile." _

_Henry was lounging next to him on the sofa, passing a cigarette back and forth because they had smoked almost all of them an hour ago. He thought about the question for a bit, thinking it odd for some strange reason, and he blew out a cloud of smoke as Francis patiently waited for him to answer. _

"_I went with him because I didn't really have anything to lose," Henry admitted. He stared into Francis's lovely eyes and blinked. "He could take care of me, he _had _taken care of me, when we ran into each other. In a way, I trusted him." _

_Francis was silent for a long while. After the cigarette had burned out and Henry had sat up to stretch, Francis said, "I think you had something to lose, and you lost it when you went with Denny." _

_Licking his lips, Henry looked at his lover over his bare shoulder and frowned. "What do you mean?" he asked warily. _

"_I mean," Francis began, having been waiting for Henry to ask for his opinion, "That you had yourself to lose." He laid back, and drew Henry with him. "Denny taught you how to kill." _

_He scoffed through his teeth and sat up again. "I killed people before Denny found me. You think he stole my innocence or something? Ha! And don't even say that _you _got there first, because I don't take crass lovers." _

_Francis chuckled, though he still looked unconvinced. "But you could have been adopted into a family that would have cared for you," he stopped himself suddenly. "Not that Denny doesn't care for you, I just think you could have had a better family. He took that away from you." _

"_What family would accept a murderer into their home?" Henry objected, angry now. "I've fucking tried it before, Fran. I've gone for the normal, the loving, the fucking happy people, and you want to know what I got? Suspicion, distrust, and a whole lot of fucking nothing!" _

_Francis looked heartsick. "But haven't you ever wanted that? Wanted it enough to stop killing?" _

_He got up, completely disgusted with the man and pulled on his jeans hurriedly. Henry suddenly thought it was funny that he was about to storm out of his own room, of his own house. And then it wasn't funny anymore. _

"_I can control murder," Henry said softly, abandoning his jeans again. "I can't control a family. They feel too much. I've done some pretty horrible things, Fran, and I accept the consequences of them. But I can't let good people pay the price of the bad." _

_He laid down with a sigh. "I've always wanted it, you know," he said, turning to look into Francis's knowing gaze. "I envy those that have that sort of unconditional love. Blood ties and all," he laughed bitterly and ran a hand through his hair. "The closest I've ever come to acceptance, to a relationship miming those ties…is Denny. He took away something, probably, but what he gave back weighs more than the loss." _

_Francis employed one of his long silences again. The sound of the fire crackling echoed throughout Henry's mind, and it was so peaceful and contrary to their conversation that Henry fell into the soothing sound of the quiet. A hand on his chest brought him out of his reverie, and he turned into the caress. _

"_I won't pretend to get it," Francis whispered. "You're smarter than I am and you know better." _

"_I really don't," Henry grinned, and then kissed him. "There's a lot I don't know, Fran. I'm not infallible."_

_Francis laughed self-deprecatingly. "To me, you are," he said. "A vaincre sans peril, on triomphe sans glorie." _

"_What the bloody fuck does that mean? And when did you learn French?" Henry asked, nudging him with a smile. When Francis looked at him, however, he didn't seem happy at all. _

"_It's called school, Hen," he teased absently. "It means, to win without peril is a triumph without glory." _

"_Oh," Henry laughed, "So I'm perilous am I? You're risking a lot for glory, Francis." _

_His lover turned over and grasped his face gently, before kissing him. "I know I am," he admitted, and finally smiled. "But then so are you." _

A log breaking in the fireplace startled Henry out of his thoughts, and he tipped the ash off of his smoke before inhaling from it deeply. The conversation was still running through his mind, even weeks afterward. Henry knew it was one of the most telling talks he had ever had with _anybody_, but he didn't know what it meant for him or for their affair. Puzzled though he was, he didn't lose sleep over it. Oddly enough, it felt as though he should.

Bo stirred in his lap and shook his head back and forth, sniffling. "What is that _dreadful_ smell?" the dragon demanded to know, sitting up.

Henry flashed the cigarette briefly, before putting it out. Bo went for the ash tray with renewed interest and Henry pulled him away. "Not for dragons, my dear."

"Oh, and I suppose it's all for you!" Bo said crossly. "I don't like not having things!"

"You wouldn't like it," Henry insisted. "I've got to write a letter to the Weasleys. Would you mind very much?"

"Oh, not at all!" Bo said happily, side-tracked from ingesting the cigarette butt. Thank Jesus. "Molly gives me a whole chicken!"

Henry put a calming hand on his back. "Does she? Keeps one for you, eh?"

"Aye, and it's always the fattest one," the dragon bragged. "She said there was no hard

feelings about the others...that one time, you know."

"Molly is a lovely woman," Henry agreed, although he knew Mrs. Weasley saved one for Bo to distract him, should he take to eating all of all of them again.

"Have you finished the letter?" Bo asked, stretching like a cat. "I should like to take it to them now."

He glanced at the nearly blank parchment and grimaced. "No," he admitted. "I'm not sure what to say."

"Humans," Bo scoffed. "Say that you love them and you miss them." The dragon snuffled once more and seemed very sure he had given Henry the answer to life.

Henry smiled affectionately. "Perhaps," he said.

"Well?" Bo prodded with a shake. "You do miss them and you do love them, don't you?"

Henry looked away from the ever blunt creature and bit his lip. Finally, he nodded, "I do."

Bo realized he wasn't going to get a chicken in the next hour and plopped back down on Henry's knees. "You humans make everything so complicated," he said irritably.

Henry closed his eyes and hummed his agreement. When he opened them again, Bo was fast asleep and the fire had dimmed to small popping embers. He reached for the letter and his pen, and wrote.

.o00o.

_If you are ready_.

Those words, they left no room for choice, because he was obligated to be ready. He was always ready. Such words had the power to rouse a fury in him, for they were unnecessary and only made his helplessness and lack of control in these particular matters seem all the more blatant. He knew, as well as Dumbledore did, that obligation preceded individual desire, and Severus Snape was either ready, or he was not.

_If you are prepared_.

He briefly considered telling Albus the truth, that no amount of vigilance would allow him to be comfortable with this endeavor. He considered saying that he was not ready in any way, and he wanted _so badly _to tell the old coot to find a new man. But then Severus prided himself on being respectful and controlled in even the most trying circumstances. It made him a very good spy, but a taciturn, bitter man.

The tournament had been such a ridiculous failure, that he rather thought the death of the Diggory boy would somehow reach his doorstep. Crouch Jr. had been caught and kissed, but Severus was a known Death Eater; and a possible accomplice. Dumbledore was ordering (for his words were nothing but a command) that Severus rejoin the regime, a wise fool to do so. A wise fool indeed.

It would be a challenge to curry favor in the ranks once more, having not gone to the meeting, having ignored a direct summoning. He would be expected to approach the Dark Lord with quite a bit of information, and he had quite a bit but not enough to get out of being cursed into oblivion. Severus was invaluable to the Dark Lord, which perhaps was his only saving grace, and he knew that to an outsider it would seem he was walking into certain death. Yet he did not expect to die.

He hadn't anticipated the Dark Lord's reaction to Harry Potter's disappearance to be quite so explosive, though. Severus had never forgotten that the son of James Potter was missing and presumed dead. But, in his time of fear and uncertain reckoning, the misplaced boy was the last thing on his mind.

"Are you telling me, that the boy hasn't been seen in _six _years?" he hissed, and Severus did not find it hard to look away from the snake-like visage. The hair on the back of his neck stood up at the sound of the Dark Lord's anger. "Six years. He is suspected dead and lost to the Wizarding World." Silence was his answer, and their Lord said, somewhat amusedly, "You _are _telling me this."

When he made it sound like that, Severus was inclined to believe the Dark Lord was happy about Harry Potter vanishing.

"_Crucio!_" Perhaps not.

"I want him found!" he bellowed, and Severus felt the vibration of his magic shutter through him. The fear he had lived without for fourteen years had suddenly returned, and it was so intense that he was sure his pounding heart would explode or stop. Either way, the agony of his fright would end.

"Not only have you all failed in finding and restoring me, but you've let my enemy slip away. Your incompetence astounds me," Voldemort told them furiously.

The Dark Lord continued to curse his followers, and thankfully, he was no longer yelling. Though the sibilant words were just as malicious and fearsome as the shouting, Severus was glad for the peace to his ears.

"Severus," Voldemort called him, and he closed his mind and gained back his palatial control. "I desire something from you. When Dumbledore finds the boy, you will bring the child to me, do you understand?"

"My lord," he began diffidently. "Dumbledore's search for Potter has so far been fruitless."

The Dark Lord's bright red eyes were the only thing Severus could see, for his face had been swathed in shadows. "He will find him," his lord affirmed. "And when he does, you will bring Potter to me."

Severus swallowed. Harry Potter was likely dead, his stupidity in running away knowing no bounds, in an overcrowded city with more dangers than to be getting on with. The boy was dead and it was a good thing that he was. That sort of reckless idiocy tended to get people killed. _Dumbledore_ having had no luck locating the child told him enough. This task was impossible.

_If you are ready. _

The Dark Lord continued his silent rampage, after Severus had nodded his assent. It would have to be done. They would have to find Potter no matter what. Only, Severus wasn't quite sure how to accomplish that. Severus wasn't at all ready for this challenge.

_If you are prepared. _

He should have said to Dumbledore, with disrespect absolutely intended, "Not at all, you old fuck."

.o00o.

Henry lit a cigarette and scowled. The man across from him wasn't telling him anything of importance, and he was quickly losing patience.

"Yes, right," he said to the man, trying hard not to sound too annoyed. "Tyler knows very well that Augustus Zabini is double crossing him." He released the ash on his smoke with a flick of his thumb. "He's too small of a criminal to pull it off Horst, you know that."

"Listen, Henry," he said, so nervous he was sweating profusely. "The word around is that Zabini is perfectly able to handle himself. No one's heard about an accomplice."

"You're telling me that one lowly man is deporting freight that Tyler owns, all by himself? Flying the freight plane, loading the two hundred crates on and off of various trucks, shipping it to the Americas _all by his little self_?"

He was angry now, and Horst knew it.

"I can give you his whereabouts, Hen, not his partners."

"Well, how wonderful," Henry said sarcastically, taking a drag. "Say I go to Zabini's place, barging in there wanting answers, and I'm suddenly surrounded by fifty partners that, according to you, didn't exist."

"I doubt he would have fifty men, honestly."

"Tell me what I'd be then, Horst. Go on."

"Not fifty, surely."

Henry blew smoke into the man's face. "Tell me," he demanded.

Horst licked his chapped lips, grimacing, and then said softly, "Dead."

Stubbing his cigarette with his heel, Henry nodded with a smile. "Exactly. I'll tell Tyler you gave me his _whereabouts_," he mentioned, rolling his eyes.

"Please, Henry," Horst said, clasping his shoulder as he made to leave. "I don't know who he's working with. I don't."

Henry stepped aside, still wearing his pleasant smile and placed a hand on the man's cheek. He slapped it lightly. "No worries, mate. You're _invaluable_."

.o00o.

He cursed himself for not being more careful. Beside him, Henry tottered towards the house, stumbling a bit before Francis righted him. He wasn't sure what Henry had taken, or whether he had taken anything voluntarily at all. The man that had held Henry down had probably given Henry the drug, but Francis didn't see it, because he hadn't noticed the kid was gone. Fuck, Denny was going to _kill_ him.

Already, bruises were blossoming on Henry's wrists, harshly black with unnecessary cruelty, and Francis was only glad he had gotten there just in time-before it had gotten any worse. The thought of someone taking advantage of Henry or beating him or killing him, bothered Francis more than he would like to admit.

He had certainly not looked for love when he had started his affair with Henry Brooks. In fact, love had been the last thing on his mind. Now, after he had rescued Henry from that disgusting, horrible man, love was all Francis could think about.

He hadn't been raised with affection. His father was a cold and brutal man, that had treated his family as an obligation, and his son like the disappointing spoils of a lost bet. Francis had the money and the name to be whatever he wanted, and though he was never ungrateful for it, he mourned the loss of becoming a better man had he been given some encouragement when it was needed. He never harped on such things though, a long time ago he dismissed the sorrow as pointless. But the bitterness remained, because he was _always_ angry.

Finding someone to blame wasn't hard. Tyler and Brooks had trained Philip Gabriel, had made him an unaffectionate father. Working for them was hard, but not impossible. The challenge, for Francis, was watching Denny Brooks so obviously care for his son. He wanted to ask, "Why did you make Phillip any different?" but Denny Brooks was a name for a reason. The man was dangerous.

Just like his son, consequently. A boy Francis had found attractive the moment he had laid eyes on him, for all of his mysterious, quick-witted confidence. In awe-Francis was in awe of Henry's convoluted mind. Of his beauty, his ambitions, and his faults. Despite this unpredictable feeling of passion, Francis knew that the bitterness was more than any sort of fickle affection. He hated more than he loved.

Henry knew he was home when his back hit his bed, and he curled into his pillow with a sigh. Minutes later, or it could have been hours, he didn't know, Henry turned over and found Francis in his bed, and drew him close. Francis kissed him, allowing the movement, and whispered into his mouth, "No more."

He knew what Francis was talking about. He knew because he remembered, and at the moment, all he wanted was Francis to replace the disgusting feeling running through his body. The itch that told of the intimacy of a stranger, unsolicited. "No more," Henry agreed. Francis kissed him again, and Henry returned the caresses with eagerness.

He felt immensely full. The warm body on top of him moved against his own so pleasantly he couldn't help but voice his appreciation. Francis's biceps always looked glorious with his fingers wrapped around them, clenching and unclenching until the man's skin turned white with their imprint. The slide of a torso against his own accompanied the short, quick jabs of Francis inside him, and he exhaled against his lover's mouth heavily with every push. Francis's thrusts picked up, and Henry moved his hands down the expanse of the man's back, the sweat there gathering on his palms. They turned over, and Henry was suddenly in charge, and he moved just as unreservedly as Francis had.

Henry cried out his release, just in time to see the door to his bedroom open, and the light of Tyler's eyes stare at him from the crack that spoke of the outside world. Francis erupted inside of him, crying out, and Henry breathed in deeply as he held that wide blue glare, unwilling to look away until his choice was understood. He turned back to his lover, leant down softly, and kissed him.


	11. Chapter Ten

A/n: Three more (I think) chapters to go until we're back in the present, and then I'll get to bring Draco into things, eventually. Whoa, boy, that was vague. I'd like to thank all the reviewers from last chapter! You keep me updating and happy throughout the week. We've made it past one hundred! Yeah! If you guys can think of a way to celebrate without PBR, let me know! Thanks again to the wonderful peeps adding me to their favorites and their alerts! As always, please leave a review if you feel like giving some much needed feedback. Enjoy the next chapter!

A Few responses: …(?): for realzies! Got it in one!

Ncgal: I'm afraid, darling, that it wasn't much of cliffhanger. This chapter is a suspense builder really, it's the next one that will smack you in the face. I'm excited to post that one! I really hope you did last the week, because I don't know what you would do if you felt as though you couldn't. Nothing dangerous, I hope? I won't leave many cliffhangers in this story, and if I do leave one, it will be a major cliffhanger, and I'd post the next chapter right afterwards. Suspense is all fine and dandy, but butterflies in the stomach for a week? That's torture. Shezza88 used to do that to me with his series, the jerk. Anyway, enjoy the next chapter, and as always, it's lovely to hear from you!

Amazonia: Dude, you were the hundredth reviewer on this story! Major props! I award you 50,000 awesomeness dollars and a bag of turtle chex mix for your contribution! Seriously, you can get that talking house now, because you are officially the moon, the sun, the stars, and any other celestial body I can think of for being so perfectly awesome. Now I get 10 grand for using the term 'celestial body'.

Note: Er, I'm not sure what happened, but fanfic _really _messed up the formatting on my first upload, so if you get the first one and it's all wonky, the people at fanfic apologize. Don't you? *waves fist*

* * *

Pistol Whipped

Chapter Ten

"I don't think it's working, Tyler," Denny felt compelled to say, undoubtedly pointing out the obvious in the most annoying way possible. There were times when Tyler absolutely couldn't stand the man, and this was one of them. He turned to his old friend and scowled furiously as the blood rushed to his face.

"I'm aware of that, thank you," he bit out.

They were, of course, speaking of the situation with Henry, as they always seemed to be doing these days. The boy's fifteenth birthday had come and gone, the long summer turning into winter without much event in way of taking care of the lad. Tyler quite thought Denny's attempts (and his terrible hatred for Francis Gabriel) a flimsy half-arsed effort to save Henry from imminent descent. The teenager went out far too much, got sloshed too much, ran about with the wrong sort of folk, and until recently, had killed too many people. The boy's impulsiveness had come back with a vengeance ever since his affair with Gabriel had started, and Tyler fancied that he was the one most put-upon by the reborn, reckless Henry.

Pub fights one night, a club riot the next, all marred in their merry innocence by a death or two. Tyler had never considered mixing inebriation with magic, and with a first hand example of such a catastrophe it only solidified that particular moral boundary. Henry's magical…thing…was prone to strike out a bit randomly when the boy was intoxicated, and it was not only bad for their skirting the authorities, but bad for business. The boy would be seen as weak before too long, and Tyler couldn't have that, because most of his own intimidation came from the assurance that his men were dirtier than he was.

Henry had been a wonderful asset at first, but was fast becoming a liability, and liabilities were taken care of in a business such as his. Tyler only couldn't kill the boy, wouldn't dream of it, and everyone was perfectly aware of that. Henry, by welcoming a weakness like Francis Gabriel (and all the bad that came with it) had allowed Tyler a disadvantage in consequence. It was fast spreading, this conundrum in Tyler's business; criminals were talkers, and gobs were smacking about Tyler's wayward apprentice. He wouldn't have that, not at all.

He had thus come up with a number of solutions in the past year. The easiest and most efficient alternative was to get rid of Francis Gabriel at once, but Denny had shot that idea down for reasons of his own. Tyler had approached the situation differently then. The first distraction he had thought up for the lad, had been rehiring that tutor, Waffling or some such. It had been Tyler's hope that the boy would have little time for Francis with his education to focus on, for Henry's curiosity for academia would no doubt pique enough to leave the rabble-rousing behind. Unfortunately, Waffling claimed he had little else to teach the lad, so Tyler simply requested his presence a few days a week, waving a hand at the man and telling him to "think of something for Henry to do". Even more unfortunately, Henry needed to use very little effort to accomplish the tasks Waffling set for him, and had managed to squeeze in the lessons into his party-going schedule quite nicely. The outings did not diminish.

When that had failed, he began to assign the boy a multitude of tasks, hits almost every night, gathering information from lesser informants, and generally doing whatever it was Tyler asked him to do. Only Henry killed and then thought a celebration was in order, and Gabriel would join him and Tyler's plan was made defective. He had tried everything he could to keep the boy busy enough to abandon the lifestyle Francis had introduced him to. He had even set out to have words with Gabriel, but the man was avoiding him like the plague. When none of these solutions proved successful, he settled for a hard-handed warning.

He hadn't considered that Henry would let himself be beaten.

Expecting a quarrel, a terrible fight that would most likely damage their affiliations forever, he hadn't anticipated that Henry would just lay there and take it. Last time he had checked, the boy was ridiculously headstrong, and would have never allowed for such a degradation of his dignity. Tyler had been wary in the face of the boy's indifference, but wouldn't let up on the blows of his belt. It hadn't stopped him from blacking the boy's beautiful eyes, and the only reason Tyler had yielded was because Henry's abject submission got him a little too hot and bothered. He vowed to never lay a hand with the intention to hurt upon the boy again. Which was rather a good thing, because Henry had come out of the entire incident badly bruised.

Denny, who Tyler hadn't told his desperate faulty solution to, had been absolutely livid.

"Of course he's going to let you paste him, you _fucking idiot_!" Denny had hollered at him, and Tyler did nothing to defend himself. "Do you remember where I fucking found him? Do you realize what a bairn like Hen might have dealt with? Your belt was likely a tickle, lack wit!"

And Tyler did realize, a little late, but he did.

"Henry was probably thinking you would beat him some time," Denny continued with a sardonic laugh. "Only you weren't supposed to _actually fucking do it_, Tyler!"

He knew the boy had known it was coming for a long while, and two days later he still had his bruises as a form of showmanship, to remind Tyler of what he had done and what he would regret. As if to say, _despite your bluff, I've won the hand, Patty. _

"And even if Henry deserved it, you wouldn't have the right to do it, because I'm his father, and you're his boss. There's a fucking _mighty_ difference, Tyler."

That had made him furious. "Oh, verily?" Tyler said through gritted teeth. "_I_ have taken the boy Brooks, I have provided for him, just as I provide for you!"

"You _don't_ get to hurt him!" Denny shouted.

"He is as good as mine," he said, ignoring the outburst. "Financially and dependently."

"_I'm _his father!" his old friend repeated, loudly, clearly.

"And quite a brilliant job you've done of it, mate."

The argument had ended then, on Tyler's terms, because Denny had been too infuriated to speak. They would not come to blows over it, Denny refused to do something so very juvenile, though he wouldn't mind taking a gun to Tyler's head and shooting the prick right between the eyes. He wisely left the room before he gave in to the desire.

In all of his failings, for Henry had only consorted with Francis more after the beating, Tyler came to a conclusion. What with Denny meddling and stepping out of line, and Francis seemingly fearless in the face of Tyler's wrath (the boy had better have a _reason _for the trouble he was causing) Tyler was quite sure only one resolution would be apt in the present circumstances.

He would have to take care of both of them, and then reap the benefits of Henry's loyalty afterward. He would rather it not be out of fear, but could find no other way to get through to the lovely young man.

"You won't hurt him again," Denny had said unnecessarily, curling his hands around the edges of his chair. Tyler had looked up at him from his desk, lording, as he should, and grimaced.

"Of course not," he responded. "I will do what needs to be done, as you well know, Brooks."

Tyler would confess to himself that dueling with Brooks would only result in his own death, whereas Gabriel would be an easy shot as there ever was, and Francis had dug his own grave anyway. Francis would be constrained to except Tyler's terms. Denny however, well, Tyler wasn't sure death was an adequate punishment for Brooks. A plan underfoot, that seemed rather full-proof, had Tyler in much better spirits. He took another drink, and another, and he dreamed of the climax to his story. He dreamed of a damn good ending.

.o00o.

There was a door in front of him. As curious as he was as to where it lead, he was hesitant, for the terrible darkness surrounding it and the odd floating mist in front of him said that this was more than a dream. More than a drug-induced fantasy. His arm seemed to be permanently outstretched toward the handle, his fingers twitching with wariness and indecision. From behind him, came the sound of a slow beat, speeding up once his ears acknowledged the sound. He realized, suddenly, that it was the thrum of his own heart. Why he was so afraid of a closed door confused him, but his arm dropped, and he stood in front of it stiffly.

It was about that time that he woke up, and Henry felt his torso rise from the bed as if on strings, his breath drawn out of him in quick gasps. The pain in his head was known then, and he put a hand to his forehead as if to stave it off. His scar was throbbing.

"Human father?" Bo queried from beside him, his long body wrapped around Henry for his warmth. Bo's head came up to stare into his face. "What's the matter?"

"Head, Bo," he said vaguely, rubbing his temples.

"The mark, you mean?" the dragon asked curiously, edging forward. "It's never hurt before!"

"Don't panic," Henry consoled him, laying back down on his bed and petting Bo between the eyes. "I suspected this would happen the moment Waffling told me of the resurrection."

"That's just a rumor," Bo huffed, sliding out from under his hand. "And old waffle is just stupid!"

Henry smiled at the dragon gently, and laid a hand on his scar, concealed by spell work at its finest. "I believe the scar tells all, don't you think, my dear?"

Bo couldn't argue with that, and he settled once more with a huff. He ran his hands down the warm scales and thought idly of the dream. "I keep seeing a door," he said to Bo, who snorted. "It never opens though. Or I never open it. What is he trying to tell me?"

"He's inside your head?" Bo asked bitingly. "Oh, but that can't be good at all!"

"Calm down, will you?" Henry tapped him on the nose. "I've got Occlumency well in hand. Legilimency as well, and the visions the Dark Lord is sending me do little harm. I'm not even sure he knows that he's sending them to me. Best not chance it. I just wish I knew what the door meant."

"Well," Bo said smartly with a toss of his head. "You may as well _ask _him."

"Yes," Henry responded laughingly. "I'll just write a letter to him, shall I? Dearest Dark Lord, what _is _your problem?"

"If you can't ask him you might as well ignore him," Bo concluded wisely, and laid down with such a dramatic slump of his body that Henry was reminded of a completely worn out dog. He suddenly sat up again, "What will you do if he attacks your mind though? He has a connection like ours!" he screeched.

Henry shushed the drake even though Bo was only loud in his head. He placed a pacifying hand on Bo's back. "It's alright, Bo," he said, "I always give as good as I get."

The dragon's hiss of amusement made him smile, and after a while Bo fell back to sleep. Henry continued to stroke the smooth skin, until his eyes began to droop as well. He laid down next to Bo, and wondered, before he fell back into the arms of sleep, at Voldemort's audacity seemingly without tact.

.o00o.

Ron's hands shook anxiously as he walked down the silent white hall. His brothers and his sister marched along next to him, the chortling of Fred and George over some rather amusing portraits not as funny as it could have been, but appreciated all the same. St. Mungo's was too silent, too clean, and too unlike his own home. His father shouldn't be here, shouldn't be in the sterile ward with the ailing patients and the obligatory concern of the healers. Not when he could have been at home, where it was warm and familiar.

He knew he was panicking a bit, but it helped that no one else was (they were all trying their very best to keep calm) except for when they had all waited for word that their father would make it, and when the grand news had come a collective wave of relief had passed through them. But Ron hated that his dad was there, hated hospitals in general, and as they walked into the room to greet Arthur Weasley, the pale but smiling face made him feel worse instead of better.

"Dad!"

"Arthur!"

What followed was a rambunctious reunion that could only be a Weasley family gathering. They hugged their father gently, loud and jolly, and Ron (though still reserved) couldn't help but grin gaily at the proceedings. Too soon, however, they were kicked out by Molly and Kingsley, who had accompanied them to the hospital. Ron grumbled as he and his siblings were herded out into the hall, to get tea, supposedly, and Ginny looked as though she would explode at any moment, she was so angry.

"Always left out!" She hissed at the closed door, and turned with her arms crossed to glare at her brothers. "_Order_ business," she snapped mockingly. "Dad's hurt and they want to talk _Order business_!"

"Keep your voice down, Gin," Ron hushed her, and then took a step back when she glared. "Fred and George have it, and they need to think we've left."

"Right you are, Ron," Fred said, dangling an Extendable Ear from his pocket.

"Throw us out, will they?" George said with a grin, "I think not!"

They leaned forward inaudibly as Fred slid the ear through the crack at the bottom of the door. Immediately, Ron gathered close to listen to the conversation going on between his parents and Kingsley.

"…Is what I don't understand Arthur," Kingsley was just finished saying.

"I know, I know," their father said, and he seemed tired. "I, well, it's a bit hard to explain…."

"Try," said Kingsley simply.

They heard a sigh come from Arthur, and a rustling that had to be his hospital blankets as he moved to sit up. Molly simpered over him for a moment, as was heard in her whispered comfort, but Kingsley must have been standing over them with a rather stern expression, because Arthur sighed again.

"There's a boy," he started, sounding anxious. "Molly and I would take care of him from time to time. He didn't have a home, you see, and he would visit us every Christmas."

"Chris?" mouthed Ron to his siblings, and they all frowned.

"What does this have to with Chris, Arthur?" Molly asked, her voice quivering.

Arthur was silent for only a moment. "He was the one that got me out, Molly."

Ron stiffened in shock, feeling Ginny, Fred, and George do the same.

"How did he know you were there?" Molly said, near hysteria. "How did he know you were _hurt_?"

"All I can think is that he put a protection charm of sorts on me, on us, I'm assuming, to tell him when we were in trouble. Bo showed up first, and took the venom out," Arthur speculated.

Kingsley cleared his throat. "Bo?" he asked lightly.

"He has a dragon," said Molly absently. "Oh, well, Chris is a Wizard, we've known for a while. He's not a Muggle, Kings, really. Bo was given to him by the dragon's father, and Chris brought him up. Oh!" she suddenly stopped herself, and Ron imagined that she was looking imploringly at Kingsley, perhaps with a hand over her lips. "Please don't report him, Kings, he doesn't know better, and now I've run my mouth about it. It isn't fair to him!"

"Good going, mum," Fred muttered.

"Sell out dad's savior," George scoffed.

"I won't," Kingsley said quickly. "But how did he get into the Department, anyway? He used the Floo, or Apparated, I trust?"

"Ah," Arthur coughed a bit. "Of course."

"Dumbledore needs to know, Arthur," the Auror said in warning. Shacklebolt likely sensed their willingness to protect Chris, despite the importance of the information. "I need to know if this boy is on our side," he hedged.

That struck Ron as a bit uncalled for, given Chris had saved his dad's life. When Arthur spoke next, he sounded affronted as well. "He saved my life, Kingsley."

"And he's too young to be joining the Order," Molly snapped.

"All right, all right," Kingsley's footsteps came towards them. "I should be going, wish you well, Arthur, Molly."

"Thank you, Kings."

They backed away quickly, leaning against the wall as Kingsley made his way out. He glanced at them briefly, smiling, and then set off down the hall. As one, they flooded into the ward.

Arthur was grinning at them, and Molly was scowling but didn't seem surprised they had overheard.

"It _was _Chris, then?" Ron blurted. _My best mate?_

"Your wayward best mate, indeed, Ron," Arthur said gently. Ron marveled at how alike he and his dad were, and at how close he had come to losing him. He sat beside his father on the bed.

"How did he look?" Molly questioned, sitting on the other side and running a hand through her husband's hair.

"Well, very well," he said. "He's become a rather handsome young man."

"Did he really put a spell on us, dad?" Ginny asked with a frown.

"I think he did," Arthur said seriously. "Though I'm not surprised, I'm rather dubious as to why he would leave if he…." he did not finish.

"If he wanted us safe so much," Ginny completed with a smile, and grabbed onto his hand. Molly started to cry then, holding her daughter close (who seemed to be the unlucky comforter for her parents) and she sent a irritated look at Fred and George, who had moved out of the way of their mother's clinging hands with rapidity.

"That poor boy!" Molly went on, "Oh, he thinks we don't want him, Arthur! What a terrible misunderstanding!"

"That's not it at all, I think, my dear," Arthur said quickly, before looking around the ward with slight suspiciousness. He leaned forward. "He _Apparated to me _Molly, directly! Didn't use the Floo or the call box, as I might have suggested to Kingsley."

"Into the department?" his wife gasped, looking very puzzled. "But that's not possible!"

Arthur shook his head mildly. "Right there beside me, he was. Broke through the wards, I should say."

In quite a bit of shock, Ron stood thinking of the new development with consternation. It wasn't that he wasn't grateful for Chris saving his father, Ron knew how lucky he had been to have a friend _able _to pass through Ministry wards, only the fact that Chris had done it at all was what perplexed him. The only Anti-Apparation wards better than the Ministry's were Hogwarts, and it was nigh on impossible to get through either of them. How had Chris done it? Obviously he knew warding, and was able to break through the spells, but Ron was unsure as to the technicalities of such a thing. That was Bill and Hermione's area, not his.

He was honestly more upset that he didn't know his best mate well enough to have an answer for this poser. His lack of clarity was understandable, given Chris and Ron hadn't had much time together when they were small. Ron only knew that he looked up to and admired Chris, like a childish fantasy of an almost godly companion, and even more so did he hold Chris in high regard now that his father had been saved.

"So you see," Arthur was saying, "He didn't leave because he thought he was a burden, he left because he finds the present condition hazardous," he paused at his family's blank stares and clarified, "He's hiding from the war!"

Molly scoffed. "Now that _is _an assumption!" she said hotly, "Did he speak to you of his reasons? If he did not, you shouldn't talk."

"He's uninterested in belonging to the Wizarding world, Molls," Arthur explained rather patiently. "He likely knows of," he lowered his voice again. "The Dark Lord's return and is hoping to remain out of the war."

"It's understandable," Ron shrugged. "What with _him_ attacking Muggleborns and all."

"Well," Molly straightened up tidily and sniffed a bit. "I can't argue with that, I suppose. The safer the children are, the better." She leaned down and kissed her husband on the cheek. "You look shattered, dear, we'll leave you to rest."

They said their goodbyes, sad to leave but relieved Arthur was alright, and as Ron walked out of St. Mungo's his heart felt heavy. He wanted his father home, where it was safe and customary, but most of all, he wanted to see his best mate again. He had quite a few questions to ask Chris, but unfortunately, Ron had no hope they would be answered any time soon.

.o00o.

Henry moved through the dark street silently, looking out for the man they all knew as David Grey, a sulky fellow with ugly, beady black eyes. He caught sight of the man in question as he slunk out of the pub, his hunched back hidden by a black duffle coat that most likely had at least three loaded weapons hidden within its bulky pockets. David Grey was famous for pocket pistols.

The click of the man's boots on the walk echoed upon the wet stone of London. He wasn't impressed with Mr. Grey. They had gotten word that the man was working for a possible new contender named Alexander Landon, whom Henry thought was rather ridiculous. Tyler was all talk about preemptive strikes, however, and though Henry agreed to the hit on Landon, he was of the opinion Tyler's disposition on the matter was telling of an unhinged part of Patrick's normal paranoia. As David made his way to his car, Henry screwed on the silencer to his Smith and Wesson and sidled up behind him. One clean shot in the back of the neck took care of him, and Henry moved swiftly out of the way of the collapsing body. Ash blanketed the floor wetly as left the scene, pocketing the pistols on Mr. Grey's person along with his own gun. He took off his gloves and Apparated away. Francis was waiting for him outside the club, patiently rocking on his heels with his hands in his pockets.

Gesturing to the gloves, Francis said, "Going for a regular, then?"

"Absolutely," he said, shaking a finger in Fran's face. "Can't have people getting suspicious, you know."

Fran nodded. "What's the word, guv?"

Henry copied his stance and frowned. "What's the word? Alexander Landon is planning on dealing the CON and the APOC. He got a sample from someone," Henry waved a hand dramatically. "But never fear! I shall find the traitor and take care of Landon! Mr. Grey was a successful job, he had quite a few interesting contacts in his mobile."

Interesting contacts indeed, Henry thought triumphantly. Whether Horst had been telling the truth or not was irrelevant, because Augustus Zabini was partnered with Landon, and Henry knew the whereabouts of both men. Tyler would be happy (if that was at all possible anymore) to hear of his victory.

Francis smiled at him and drew him closer by the waist. "You ready then? Mary is here with her beau."

Henry grimaced, letting himself be held. "As much as I'd love to deal with their insipid dramatics, I've somewhere else to be, love."

"You're not with us tonight?" Francis asked, drawing away from him.

"I've plans already, Fran," Henry said irritably.

"You had plans with me, or so I thought," he retorted hotly, moving his hands once more into his pockets. "Is this about Tyler?"

Henry's jaw clenched so hard his ears popped. "No," he snapped. "It's not."

"Because this is getting a bit mad. He keeps you busy so you'll stay away from me. Then he goes and fucking _beats_ you!"

"It was only once."

"And I'm sure that's fine with you, eh? Only once means he won't do it again."

"What the fuck is the matter with you?" Henry said heatedly, trying not to shout.

"The man's a fucking nutter! He's bloody losing it, Hen. You know he is. Likin' a kid like you and drinking that awful stuff, pissed and loony isn't good for anyone!" Francis had built up steam by then, likely bottled from the many times in the last three months that Henry hadn't been able to see him. His face was so red his freckles were bright in the night lights.

"He doesn't like that I've got you, and mad as a march hare as he is, he'll do what he can to separate us."

"You've got me?" Henry repeated. "You've _got me_?" He stepped forward and glared. "No one's got me Francis Gabriel, least of all you!"

The hand that grabbed his arm was sharp and bruising, as were his words. "So you're shagging that old fuck, then? Is that it?"

Henry wrenched himself away. "No!" he denied.

"Well if I haven't got you, then who does?" he reached out for Henry again and tightened his hold when Henry tried to pull away. "Who does?" he demanded, shaking him roughly.

"I do!" Henry shouted at him. "_I've_ got me! I don't belong to anyone, Francis," he moved forward and Fran's face paled at his terrifyingly indifferent glower. "You'd best realize that, love, or you'll be sorely disappointed when we're done."

Francis kissed him.

"I know," he whispered into Henry's mouth, and finally let go of his arm. "I know, I'm sorry."

Henry moved out of his grasp and left without saying another word.

.oOOo.

Arthur hadn't been sleeping, not really, and when he felt someone enter and move to his bed, he opened his eyes to greet them. Chris looked a bit ruffled and annoyed, but when he noticed that Arthur was awake he dropped the disgruntled expression and moved forward. He sat down on the side of the man's bed.

"How are you?" he asked quickly, quietly.

Arthur smiled at him. "Much better," he answered. "Thanks to you, Chrissie," he patted Chris's hand.

Chris shifted a bit and returned his smile. "When will they release you?" he asked.

Arthur didn't know why that would matter, given Chris wouldn't go back to the Burrow even if Arthur begged. "In a few days, or so they tell me," he dipped his head wearily and said, "Thank you for saving my life."

The young man reddened. "There's no thanks needed, Mr. Weasley."They were silent for a time, and then Arthur shifted, and looked at him in a way that immediately made the lad nervous. He reached out a hand to soothe away the anxiety, brushing away the long fluffy bangs.

"Your real name," Arthur said softly. "It's Harry, isn't it?"

His face was open, his eyes large with sympathy and understanding. Chris turned away from that candid expression, but said, simply, "Yes."

"You look like your father," Mr. Weasley commented idly, dropping his hand. "But you're like your mother."

"Is that how you knew?" Chris asked, knowing the scar upon his forehead to be telling, but concealed.

Arthur nodded. "That and your power, young man. Magic once touched by another's magic, breeds familiarity. I imagine it was what drew you to my shed that day, for I knew you as a baby, and I knew your parents. Magic always remembers, Harry."

The boy sighed. "I haven't wanted to be Harry in a long time."

Arthur patted him on the shoulder. "I don't blame you. I owe you my life, Chris."

Running a hand through his ruffled hair, the lad suddenly nodded. "Just stay away from giant snakes from now on, and we'll call it even," Chris teased with a short grin.

"You won't let us take care of you," Arthur said, and it wasn't a question at all.

"I'm taken care of," Chris reminded him, and got up. He abruptly leaned down and gave Arthur a loose, awkward hug that told him the lad didn't do it often. His arms came up to hold Chris there.

"I'd wish better for you, son," Arthur admitted, though it was likely not much of a confession at all.

Chris pulled back, looking pained, and gave the man a small, strained smile "As I would for you."

.oOOo.

Henry hadn't been to Gringotts in quite awhile. Not since he had introduced a newly hatched Bo to his dragon father. Then, it had been bustling with life, witches and wizards going about their business in the famed Alley at different paces, but all free from worry. Therefore, he was quite shocked when he entered Diagon to find the streets bare and most of the usually busy shops closed. The giant white building marked the monument that was Gringotts, looking so much like a ghost town that Henry feared for a moment that it had been abandoned. He noticed a wizard in a dark red robe pull his hood up a bit more, and slink into the bank with a few cautious glances around him. His worry laid to rest, Henry made his way towards the doors where he encountered two goblins that seemed to be having trouble staying awake, standing guard. Upon his approach up the steps, however, they jolted and raised their spears at him. Henry gave them each a small nod and moved on and into the bank. Touchy things, goblins.

"Is Griphook here?" he asked the first teller he saw, who glared at him rather officiously. Henry looked behind him to make sure he hadn't cut in line, but saw that the place was near empty. Griphook came out of the swinging doors to his left and motioned for Henry to come.

"To what do I owe this pleasure, Mr. Brooks?"

Henry fidgeted a little. "I would like to speak to you and Tenebres if that is acceptable," he answered just as primly.

Griphook smirked at him. "Of course," he said, leading the way.

The long journey down to the vaults had never seemed quite _so _long before. Where Henry had once thought the ride down exhilarating, it was less so with the sudden dullness of the bank. He had an inkling as to why the Alley was vacant, but preferred to speak to both of his friends together, as they were similar in conversation.

"Ten," he greeted the majestic dragon when they entered his den.

Bo was wrapped securely around his father, having grown in the last year to dragon adolescence and was now just a bit smaller than a regular sized dragon. It would take ages for Bo to get to Ten's size, Henry knew, though the striking black and white contrast the two made was more massive and beautiful than any growth spurt Bo might have.

"Yes, Bo has told me you would visit," Ten immediately said. "I trust you are well, dragon speaker?"

"I am, thank you," Henry said politely. "And you, Ten?"

"Exceedingly well," Ten rumbled. "Though the goblins have little to do but feed me now that the bank is so quiet."

Griphook stepped forward and gave Bo a pat on the snout. "You do enjoy the meat, Tenebres, you're not like to complain."

Smoke blew out of Ten's nose in amusement. "Hardly," he teased Griphook.

"Am I right to guess, that the Alley is silent due to the Dark Lord's return?" Henry asked them.

"Lord, well," Ten snuffled, and there was a bit of fire that time. "The humans are too frightened to come here because of this _Lord_. He believes he's quite Lordly, in any event."

"There are rumors about that he has returned," Griphook added. "Though the Wizard ministry denies such a thing, the people are not comforted enough to continue as they once were. We are losing business."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Henry said sincerely. "You are aware, of course, that he is active once more?"

At their nods and one snort from Bo, he continued, "I only come upon this knowledge by way of a vision," he admitted. "The man has marked me and through the scar, as you know, and I receive images from his mind. I think he is aware of our connection, and has used it to show me a rather dubious set of doors."

"Well now, that," Tenebres said wryly, "could mean anything."

"Precisely," Henry agreed, and then shifted nervously. "I've come to ask for your help," he started, addressing both Ten and Griphook. "Though you are not indebted to me in any way."

His silence afterward seemed to frustrate Ten, who let out a gust of smoke and snapped, "Speak! Will you not?"

Henry nodded obediently. "I need for you to take of Bo, Ten," he blurted.

Bo immediately protested, though his father leaned forward curiously.

"No, Bo," Henry admonished him. "I might have to go away unexpectedly, and I don't want you to be hurt."

"You are forgetting that I am a dragon, human father, and that I am unlikely to be hurt!" Bo shouted, and spread his wings out wildly and clapped together his jaws.

Henry moved forward and pulled Bo's head down so he could look at the little one closely. "Bo," he said softly. "It's not just that. Tyler is getting stranger as of late. I've been doing things that deserve consequences, and," he sighed. "I feel as if the time has come, and I am not ready. I may need to run."

"You intend to leave England?" Griphook asked gruffly, but didn't seem surprised.

"I do," he let Bo sulk and turned to the goblin. "Not just yet, but soon. I cannot defeat the Dark Lord on cleverness alone. I will need practice, knowledge, and control. All of which I have but not in droves."

"You are wise to think you are outmatched, but I must ask," Griphook paused, looking very curious but somehow knowledgeable of the answer already. "Why do you believe you must defeat him?"

Henry lifted his chin. "There are bigger plans afoot, in my mind that is," he said honestly.

"Oh, good show!" Ten said, inordinately pleased. "I will have that, yes I will, and my drake should stay here with me."

"But…!"

"_Bo_," both Henry and Tenebres said warningly, and the dragon backed down with a fierce glare.

"I would also like to ask you for another favor," Henry started. "The Dark Lord is a sharp man, soon he will seek to recruit the dragon race to his side, if he means to start another war."

"He will," Griphook said, looking incensed. "Wizards are always after war."

"Hmm," Ten nodded to Griphook. "The dragons are aware of this man. He treated us with disrespect in the last war he waged. False promises and conceit. We shall not ally with him once more."

"I am glad to hear that," Henry said, giving a relieved sigh. "He is persistent though, and will come to you again until the circumstances grow malign."

"You know of who I am!" Ten objected.

Henry grinned. "Tenebres, the great _Dragon King _is what they call you, and I would be a right idiot if I didn't know Bo was a prince. He certainly eats like one," he ignored Bo's hiss. "But you see, humans aren't dragons. They are made of duplicity."

Ten listened to his words and then turned to the goblin. "Do you see such things happening, Griphook?" he asked. "This human warns me of humans, warns of their deception." He looked down at Henry carefully, "And yet I do not find treachery in your words, dragon speaker."

Griphook merely grunted, which seemed answer enough for Ten. "What is your favor then?" Ten asked with a decisive nod.

"I would like to put a ward around Gringotts, and if I'm right, the goblins of this bank would welcome a curtain of sorts against the coming war," he explained his need very quickly, and waited for their reaction.

For the first time since Henry had met Griphook, the goblin looked absolutely flummoxed. "You wish to protect us from outside intrusion?" he asked, practically gaping.

"The banks cannot fail," Henry told them. "The race of goblins cannot be destroyed. You are by far the only species, besides dragons, that I have met with a wit of sense. I trust your defenses, but this building is warded by the Ministry, am I correct?"

"You are," Griphook inclined his head.

Henry raised his eyebrows sardonically. "I do not trust _them _at all. Should they find themselves under siege, they would protect the money within the bank, but not the souls."

Griphook remained quiet for a long while, until finally, he clanked his teeth together and said, "When can you make this ward?"

"As soon possible," Henry responded quickly. "Today, perhaps."

"Excuse me," Griphook bowed. "I must consult my fellows. I shall return soon."

As the goblin left, Henry became aware of Tenebres chortling. "If you do as you say," the dragon chuckled. "You will have their loyalty."

"It is a matter of protection, mostly, Ten," Henry said, and then smiled. "And also the advantage of their superior skills."

"Ah," the dragon made a sound like the engine of a car. "As you spoke of deception. Here, now, my Bo is well taken care of, quite stout I must say!"

"Oi!"

"And though he is somewhat lacking in decorum," Ten continued, hitting his son gently with a wing. "You have protected and loved a child of mine. Should you need any dragon's help, I speak for us all and grant you our service," he ended his speech with a sweeping bow that reminded Henry of a humble king thanking a peasant.

He blinked, and bowed back deeply. "I thank you, Dragon King," he cleared his throat and straightened. "That is quite an honor."

"Pish posh with the titles," Ten waved his words away. "I would be a fool not to support a human such as yourself. Dragons have no reign upon Wizards, but I sense that you shall succeed, and when you do," he leaned forward and winked. "We shall be great once more."

"You are great already, you know," Henry complimented, and Ten preened.

Griphook returned then, with an older severe looking goblin and another who seemed young and paranoid. Henry watched them carefully.

"We have granted you this request, Wizard," said the old one, his voice the croak of an elderly man caught with cold. "On the condition that the casting is overseen by elder Merrymoat."

Henry inclined his head to the goblin. "Of course, sir."

He followed them to the very core of the bank, and began.

.o00o.

Denny held out his glass as his son poured, and brought it to his lips. He snapped his neck back with the cup, downing the strong spirits swiftly before motioning for another.

"Do you mean to get pissed, then?" Henry said, laughter in his voice.

"I've the need to," he responded with a sigh. "Don't be a piker, a bit more, thank you."

Henry poured dutifully. "I do hope you aren't planning on having the same conversation again," he felt compelled to admonish the man, at least before he started in on his objections for the thousandth time.

Denny's voice was rather scratchy when he spoke next. "I do," he grumbled. "You little blighter."

He lit a cigarette and sat down on the settee facing Denny and gave him a look that expressed just how tired the lecture had gotten.

"Little fucker," Denny insulted him before swallowing down another draft of rich Cognac.

"You've lovely terms of endearment," said Henry, crossing his legs. He sighed and took a drag, saying, "We need to wait, Den."

"For what? Death? Life? Love?" the man scoffed. "Tyler's going to be rid of us. He's going to kill that lover of yours and take you as his reward," Denny raised his glass in a sarcastic cheers.

Henry looked away from him, and then took a breath and said, "He knows the consequences of such a thing."

"An eye for an eye with you, innit lad?"

"He goes after you, I go after him," Henry snapped, and snapped the ash off of his smoke. "He knows this."

The last two months, however, had only served to weaken Henry's foresight. Tyler barely talked to either of them, except to relay various hits he wanted done, and the man had taken to ghosting about the house in a sort of catatonic haze. It alarmed Henry greatly, that Tyler, who had provided for him and who had always seemed so very strong, was going so obviously round the bend.

It made it hard to want to leave, because they still had ties there, and though he knew Tyler would never hurt him, he had a thought that the man would indeed go after all those he coveted close. Henry had already warned Francis, who had spoken to Tyler weeks ago, coming out of the meeting with a black eye. He wasn't much at the manor anymore, likely to avoid Henry's suddenly rather violent boss, and Tyler's changes were so disturbing Denny was often insisting they leave, shrunken and sloshed on his sofa.

"Such loyalty," Denny mentioned suddenly. "He's going to kill Francis, you know."

"Francis isn't an issue anymore," Henry said through clenched teeth. It was true, because Fran was never around much since their quarrel and his chat with Tyler. When he was, Francis was less than affectionate than he once had been and often times outright withdrawn. Tyler's doing, no doubt.

"But you're still seeing him."

Henry _was _still seeing him, for the sex alone, indubitably. "I am," he admitted with a sigh.

"We should leave."

"God damn it, Den!" Henry yelled, rubbing his cigarette out fiercely. "You want me to up and leave England. Go off to who knows where when I've got ties here! Important things _here_!"

Denny's face went red. "You've always been ready to move! You're ready now! Don't lie to me. Ever since I brought you here, you planned on leaving when you wanted. When you were done with us! Tyler knows it and I know it," Denny shook his head with manic fervor. "Don't you get it, lad?"

He closed his eyes and paused. "You want to stay, to see if there's anything left to scavenge, but there won't be," Denny opened his eyes, and they looked dead. "He wants to keep you so much it's destroying him."

"I won't be kept," Henry said furiously, and exhaled. "I'm not going to be kept."

"You're priceless, you know," his father pointed out, swaying a bit from the drink. "Makes it hard to be independent. I suppose it's my fault, introducing you to this life. You work for the gun here, the gun doesn't work for you. I suppose it's my fault," he said again.

"Oh yes," Henry rolled his eyes. "Adopting, feeding, sheltering, and clothing an abandoned orphan is surely a mortal sin."

"I shouldn't have," said Denny a bit drunkenly. "I shouldn't have brought you into this life," he finished quietly.

Henry watched him. Denny put his head in his hands.

"I _like _this life," he snapped at his father. He was angry now. "You knew I would, and you knew I would be good at it. I can't…" he swallowed. "You shouldn't ever feel remorse, Denny Brooks."

"Aye, but I do," Denny said with hallow laugh, and raised his head. "I do, lad."

They were silent for a time, and Henry refilled his father's glass and watched it go down easily. He poured one for himself and lit another cigarette.

"We should leave."

Henry inhaled and held his breath, turning away from Denny's bloodshot eyes. It was around midnight, and neither of them were tired. He released the air in his lungs, and his body felt heavy.

"Not yet."


	12. Chapter Eleven

A/N: Here's the next chapter and the end of the Patrick Tyler arch (as I've come to call it). I had a great time typing and reworking this one, and the next is proving to be just as fun. As always, I'm ridiculously happy to have your feedback. All of you have really made this story worth posting (even though I would have done it anyway, a waste of work if I hadn't). Thank you so much to the regular reviewers, who I enjoy hearing from every week to an almost sad degree. Thanks also to the numerous favorites and alerts. We made it past a hundred, and that's downright brilliant. Enjoy the chapter.

**Note**: _A la Claire Fontaine _is a French Children's song, _it does not belong to me_. I'm partial to it, and considering Francis is something of a Francophile, I thought he'd like it as his legacy. Also, this chapter isn't entirely in chronological order. There are two parts that are important flashbacks, the first break (beginning) and the third break. I'm sorry to confuse but I went pretty stylistic on this chapter. I apologize.

A Few Responses: Amazonia: oh honestly, love, Denny won't die yet! Give me some credit here *hugs*. I'm glad you like Arthur so much, because he's going to be a big part of this story and the sequel (more so the sequel, come to think of it). Aw, I love you! I was worried about how well I was tying canon in with this AU, but now that you've reassured me all is well! The best part of this week will be talking to you today, hands down. I can't wait, I'm going mad with waiting.

Ncgal: hey there darling, no more waiting for this chapter. I'm done with the build up, and there won't be another one for a time. You are a veritable genius though, because you've a right to worry about how the Weasleys will react when Henry is exposed. Arthur is pretty sharp, can you guess that he may figure it out? Ha, but that entire plot won't finish up until the sequel which will be angst-filled and glorious and full of awkward romance. Yes indeed. As for Voldemort's leverage…well, let's just say he's an informed man, and Henry isn't as good at Occlumency as he thinks he is. You'll see, love. By god I love your reviews! They keep me going for sure.

Kantarose: hi new reviewer *ties up and feeds chocolate* I'm glad to have you onboard with this story! Three in the morning though, I should tell you to get some sleep because I don't want to be an accessory to your death by sleep deprivation. That would really, really suck. Probably the reason you haven't come across this story yet is because crossover stories now rule the Hp fandom. Yes, it is true. I'm glad you found it though, because your compliments had me grinning like mad and feeling wonderful all day! I hope you continue to enjoy the story as it progresses, and thank you very much for dropping me a line and consequently making me feel rather dazzling.

Warnings for this chapter: Character death, language, violence, angst, and OC's.

* * *

Pistol Whipped

Chapter Eleven

"Money to spare, guv'na?" the old woman said to the man, her plastic cup silent, telling anyone that should pass by that donations hadn't been promising that day.

Harry stopped on the other side of the street, staring rather rudely, but thinking it couldn't be helped considering just how wretched she looked.

"Spare a coin, madam?" she cried.

He usually ignored beggars. They were too conspicuous and attracted bobbies, and for Harry's line of work the tactics she employed were considered entirely unsavory. He had never begged, he was quite happy to say, and though he didn't abhor old women howling for an extra shilling, he didn't seek out their company either. Harry was far enough from the woman that he was nigh invisible, but close enough to hear a well-to-do man drop a coin into her cup.

"God bless you, young man," she thanked him with a toothless smile.

The man passed Harry, dressed in an expensive looking suit and turned to his companion with a satirical smile. "Poor old girl," he exclaimed cheerfully. "Madcap, Arnold, but I gave her a pence."

He seemed to be having a laugh at the old woman's expense, and though Harry understood his dark amusement, he glared at the back of that polished suit fiercely, kicking the ground he had walked on for good measure.

"Silver from you, sir? Paper if yer kindly?" the beggar called again.

Harry narrowed his eyes at her before he stuffed his hands in his pockets and crossed the busy street. When he stopped in front of her, looking rather sage, she rattled her cup at him.

"Go on, old maid," he said to her harshly. "I earn my bob to keep it."

"Bit of respect wouldn't do yeh harm, laddie," she admonished.

He watched as she stuffed her grubby hand into the cup and took out the pence, stuffing it into her bulky old duffle coat before raising the empty cup high.

"Mercy from ye, sir?" she went on howling, grabbing Harry's arm tightly. "I've a wolly to feed, ye see."

"Oi!" Harry objected, but the man she had been pedaling dropped a note in her cup anyway, glancing at him with sympathy. "I'm not 'ers!" he shouted at the man's back, he shook his captured limb free before turning to the old woman with a scowl. "You're a bloomin' con artist, you are!"

She grinned sickeningly. "You got me a pound me lad," she said with a mad laugh, and then reached into her matted clothes for a coin. She slapped a pence into his hand. "Fer yer work," she cackled.

Harry glowered, but pocketed the money anyway. "You've got no shame, have you?" he asked meanly. "Out here beggin' for a pence or two? No bloody shame."

She tapped him on the head with her cup. "Well 'n what do ya suppose yer doin'?" she countered. "Stealin' aintchya?"

"Better that than beg!" Harry said angrily. "I'm well off you know, in my line of work! Don't expect to be an old maid like you beggin' for a note!"

She was quiet for a time, seemingly ignoring him, and had gone back to yelling at the passers-by. Harry quite thought their conversation was over, but did not want to leave for some incomprehensible reason. He fidgeted as she begged, his hands tight in his pockets, until she turned back to him again with a keen eye.

"Likin' to that, lad," she commented mildly. "Think ye can be someone with yer stealin'?"

He glared at her, and lifted one shoulder. "I'd rather that than beg," he repeated.

"Aye," the old woman nodded wisely. "T'was I once, long ago. But I didn't have the strength. Ye think ye got the strength?"

Harry didn't answer for awhile, settling for listening to the woman hustle tourists on the streets. When the commotion died down, and Harry realized he had lost a prime opportunity for pick-pocketing, he turned back to the woman and huffed.

"I've got it," he said sincerely. "I won't have to do this forever, I won't let myself do it."

She was proud of him, he could tell from her wise old eye staring so smugly. "Ye keep on keeping on, then. If God is merciful t'will happen, lad."

He didn't think it had anything at all to do with God, but he nodded anyway.

"Money ta spare, good sir? The child is pale an 'ungry!"

Rolling his eyes at her, he made to walk away, but stopped when he saw a teenager stroll up to the old lady and drop something into her cup that suspiciously didn't sound like money. The young man turned, laughing like mad and rejoining his fellows and Harry watched her grab at the object in her cup.

"Buttons, again," she scowled. "Bah!"

She threw it to the side (which happened to be where Harry was standing) and it bounced off of his chest and into his hand. As if he had never stopped to talk to her, the woman continued her wailing as people passed her on the street. Some stopped and dropped a small piece of money into her cup, but most moved on, unconcerned with anything else but what was in front of them. Harry shoved the button into his pocket, took one last look at the mad old woman, and left.

.o00o.

The firelight danced on the white walls of his room. It made distorted pictures, shapely animals and unremarkable faces. He watched them move as the breeze from the open window touched his hair and his cheeks, pushing the flames in different directions without a paradigm. A shadow like a rabbit bounced across the wall and fled with the wind, and he brought up his glass to his lips and took a slow, burning drink. The clock tolled just after ten at night. The sun would be up soon enough.

Smoke curled around his fingers, a foxtrot with the firelight, and he blew out a cloud of dirty air and watched it catch the gale, swirling like people running down different paths to escape the flaming, heated core. He stubbed it out when it got down to the filter, tired of looking at the piled up ash like bodies, and lit another.

Henry could hear Tyler in the hall, wandering again, in an aimless lost way that Henry had grown familiar with. Sometimes the man would speak to himself, quietly murmuring in the darkness, and if Henry as awake and listening, he would whisper back and wonder if he too, had gone mad. He found it hard to pity Patrick Tyler. He found it hard to hate him, as well. The discovery of the drugs in Tyler's office made Henry uneasy with his feelings. Could he possibly have compassion for Patrick's circumstances, or was his disgust too potent to subdue? He wasn't sure, and it made him feel rather discontented to think about it. He took another drag, another drink, and understood what was happening to them.

Tyler had lost something important in the last few years. He had lost Denny to Henry, and Henry to Denny. They had each other, of course, safe in confidence with one another, but in their closeness there had been no room for Tyler. The man had lost his family, Less and Constance, who he didn't particularly like or care for, but a family had kept him in touch with the life outside of his business. With reality. He had gone from a lesser criminal boss to the most powerful in the span of a lonesome two years, and Tyler suddenly had everything he could ever want, too quickly, and too callously.

Henry didn't put much stock in the proverb that a man was unhappy with everything and happy with nothing. He didn't think it was possible, because as a kid left to survive on his own, Henry knew what it was like to have nothing. To be nothing. All he'd ever wanted was to be somebody. While Tyler had fit the axiom perfectly, indulging in drug and drink to feel something (anything), Henry wondered if the conditions were foretelling similar adversities for his own future ambitions. Would he get everything he had ever wanted, and then descend because desire kept him alive, and he had nothing left to wish for? Thinking about it made his heart race, made him want to sleep forever and never wake to have to think of it again.

The shutting of a door told Henry that Tyler had finally retired to his room, to sit in bleak silence to wait for the coming dawn, woolgathering about nothing and everything all at once. And Henry was so alike to him then that he could not bear it, and he poured another drink.

He missed Bo. The night was long without the drake curled next to him, dreaming dragon dreams (most likely about food) and then to snuffle indignantly when Henry woke from a vision and grouse. Bo was safe though, in the new specially warded bank with his father and Griphook, beings he trusted more than people any day. He missed the Weasley home, with their carefree joy and warm comfort. Protecting them had been rather easily done, a simple spell to alert him of their status (should they be in any danger) had been sent via the letters, transferred by touch to touch. Though he felt as though the people he cared about were safe, his heart still throbbed with dissatisfaction.

Henry wasn't one to feel left out of something, but lately, he felt as though he was barely there. Barely anywhere.

Denny had taken to being as far away as possible from the manor, whenever he could. He took the jobs Tyler gave him and did not do them swiftly. He spoke with informants and met with clients in Tyler's stead, and stayed among them until he was called home by some misplaced form of altruism. Henry tried to be angry that Denny was absent willingly so much, but he understood that his father was inherently selfish, and that he did not want to be there when Tyler did something impermissible. Whether or not Henry could take care of himself was irrelevant, because Denny was human and he had absolute animosity for Tyler's position. He had grown disgusted with Henry's need to stay, to see if Tyler could be helped, to wait out the coming storm so that he wouldn't have to run. Denny avoiding him made Henry more uncomfortable than he had ever been, and he didn't like the hold his father's silence had on him.

Though, more and more, while Henry did nothing to speak with Tyler in an attempt to make things right (despite his personal vow) he found England stifling with bad memories. Failures that ran through his head at the worst times. Embarrassments that drew a whimper from his throat involuntarily; noise to block out the feeling. At night those mistakes came back to haunt him, the feel of being powerless under the weight of a stranger, the recklessness that he'd employed that made him look weak and small in the eyes of his acquaintances. Mostly, an apparition of Tyler ghosted about his mind at night when he couldn't sleep for fear of dreaming. Tyler gaunt and disturbed, because Henry had destroyed him perhaps not maliciously, but _was_ at fault for not doing anything to stop it. His influence on those that knew him was never good, it seemed.

Henry wondered if he brought out the worst in people. Arthur Weasley was lying for him, covering Henry's real name from his children and his wife. Denny would rather execute common men than see to his son, who pushed too much and pushed too little. Tyler was disintegrating because he was cursed with being alone, because Henry had left him alone. Vernon Dursley had seen Henry's darker side, the part that whispered of power and of control, and he had done his best to beat it out of a little boy while leaving his blood son untouched and unknowing. Henry brought out the worst in people, of that he was sure, and there was nothing for it but to plod onward, to succeed, or descend like Tyler had, like falling snow that melted as it touched the hot, black ground.

He could not waver in his resolve. Whatever happened would happen, and Henry would cope as well as he could. He had been through worse times, after all. When the cold of the night without shelter had bled though the clothes on his back, when his stomach had been forever empty it seemed, and full of raging animals clawing for food. When he had looked up at the imposing city, his first day alone, and wondered if he should only lay down on the street and wait for death to take him. Henry had a purpose now, and he would not waver unless that looming death was certain, and he would not wish for death while the world remained as it was; waiting for an upheaval he knew he could bring. He would not be like Tyler.

The fire that once had been rampant and warming, had died down to the popping of embers and ash. The sound of his window opening brought him out of his trance, and Francis was suddenly standing before him, a sheepish smile on his face. Henry did not move as the man approached, taking the fag out of his hands and inhaling a smooth puff of smoke. Francis returned the cigarette to him, and Henry stubbed it out and rose. They went to bed.

.o00o.

"Aye, well fuck you too!" Denny was shouting at him.

Henry turned about on his heel and kept walking, waiting for Denny to follow. A couple hurried by while glancing nervously at his father, who was glaring and scuffing his heels against the ground.

"Come on, you lazy berk," Henry goaded without stopping. "We're almost there," he panted mockingly.

They were on their way to a hotel Henry had frequented as a little boy, scrounging for scraps outside of doors and sneaking into open rooms. He thought it was a humorous sort of irony that they were going there now, when he was in slightly better circumstances than when he was little. Henry hadn't told Denny that he had been there before, but he reckoned the man had figured it out based on Henry's sagacious smile-no questions needed.

Denny whistled at a bird who passed them, and she deliberately slammed her purse into his shoulder. It sounded as though there were bricks in there. Denny whimpered in pain, ignoring his son's laughter as they made their way down the crowded street.

"Now remember," Denny said, rubbing his shoulder and glowering. "We're meeting with a Yank, and they're nervous buggers, so mind where you've got your gun pointed."

Henry waved a hand at him. "I know, Den, keep your hair on," he scoffed.

"He's an old friend of an associate of mine," Denny explained for the first time. "I've never met him before, so be on your best behavior, lad."

Henry stopped in his tracks. "I thought we were meeting with him for Tyler!" he barked, furious.

"We're not!"

"What the fuck? If he finds out he'll think we're staging a mutiny, dumb shit!"

Denny stopped as well, shoving his hands into his pockets and huffing. Henry waited, and waited, but his father didn't say anything.

"What are you doing?" Henry snapped, tired of the game.

"I'm waiting for your apology," the man explained casually, before looking off in an innocent way that couldn't possibly be contrite.

Henry sighed and continued to walk, but when Denny didn't follow he turned back around and saw his father unmoving, a small twitch at the corner of his mouth betraying his amusement.

"Ah, _bleedin' fuck_," Henry cursed, marching over and grabbing Denny's arm. "Come along old boy, we'll have you home in time for tea," he mocked, using a rather tawdry southern accent.

A woman in her fifties dipped her head at Henry, as if congratulating him for being a deviant of his generation and helping his poor old father down the street. Denny pulled away from his son and smoothed down his jacket.

"Ha, very ha," he said, and they continued towards the hotel. "A little trust, lad," Denny lectured, "Would do you well. Tyler won't find out about this, because Tyler doesn't know half as much as Tyler thinks he knows."

"The bloody wanker has eyes everywhere," Henry countered. "Before we leave, I'd like him to be unsuspecting."

"Before we leave," Denny said wryly, watching the boy light a smoke. "I'd like to have a place to go to, and the protection. Do you have to do that in public? You don't look eighteen and it makes me seem like a shoddy parent."

Henry blew out a cloud of smoke but threw the cigarette away despite his glare. "Your mate planning to take us in, then?" he asked.

"If we're goddamn prompt," Denny answered waspishly. "Hold on a mo'," he stopped again and reached into his coat.

Henry rolled his eyes and muttered, "Prompt, eh?"

Ignoring him, Denny merely gave Henry an object wrapped in brown paper. He opened it up curiously and raised his eyebrows.

"_A Tale of Two Cities_?" Henry questioned, raising the novel up as if it were something fragile.

"He's rather fond of Dickens," Denny explained, and kept walking. He pointed at Henry while turning around to lope backwards, and said, "He won't like you much if you don't bribe him."

Henry rolled his eyes again, and shoved the novel in his pocket. They made it to the hotel, a bit late but not very, and sat at the bar to wait for Denny's contact. Fifteen minutes became thirty, and thirty an hour. They lingered despite the likelihood that the man wouldn't show, and finally, after an hour and some, Denny rose from the barstool and sighed. "We weren't prompt enough, I suspect," he said, and Henry threw up his hands in frustration.

"Something must have happened," Denny admitted, his eyes searching the room. "Frank wouldn't play a seven like this."

"I'm going to pretend I know what the fuck you're going on about," Henry snapped, getting up. "We have to go before Tyler realizes we've gone."

"We need their help!" Denny near shouted, and Henry hushed him.

"He didn't show up, Den," he reminded unnecessarily. "We need to leave."

He began walking towards the door, but Denny hesitated. When Henry turned around in exasperation, Denny said weakly, "He was our best shot."

Henry remained silent.

His father turned worried eyes onto him. "What'll we do now?" he asked.

Henry moved forward and lead Denny out of the bar. "Well, mate," he said in his most chipper tone. "We have a drink and hope for a better tomorrow."

Denny looked at him as though he had two heads. "Shut the fuck up," he said to his son. "Of all the nonsense you've ever said," he grinned, "That was probably the soundest advice I've ever heard."

Despite the vitality of the situation, despite their means of protection and accommodations having not followed through, Denny was glad to hear Henry laugh as they left the hotel and departed to Tyler's Manor once more.

.o00o.

His eyes opened, but he wasn't awake.

He was in a room with doors, they were all closed, and the mist was back along with the terrible foreboding. Tired of the unreasonable doors, he reached forward and grasped the knob, and to his unmitigated surprise-it opened.

There was a room, a room that was as wide as it was tall and reaching high to the ceiling were shelves that upon them had small glittering balls, catching and letting light go within their crystal depths. He walked forward, observing the strange artifacts carefully without touching them. The sound of footsteps that weren't his own made him startle, and something ran in front of him quickly. The figure was a person, and though he was a figment of the vision, he thought the dream-person more real than he himself was. The face was familiar.

"Ron?" he said, but the words did not come out of his mouth. Behind him, a bushy haired girl followed closely, and a pudgy boy and a blond girl, and a familiar person he knew to be Ron's sister, Ginny.

"They should be here, already," the bushy haired girl whispered furiously. "The letter said that they'd left a half-an-hour ago!"

"What if dad was attacked by the snake again?" Ron asked desperately, looking as though he would collapse he was such a nervous wreck.

"Don't _say _that, Ron!" Ginny snapped.

"Where are they?" the girl asked again, frightened.

Suddenly, a light flashed and hit the shelves of spheres beside them making the entire ledge shake and wobble, before it all at once started to tilt.

"Run!"

Henry awoke to the protection spell he had placed on the Weasleys throbbing horribly in his chest. He breathed in deeply, disentangling himself from Francis. He dressed, grabbed up his pistol, and Apparated away.

.o00o.

The sound of fighting was ridiculously loud in the echo constructed department. The sound wasn't sharp, but gathering and spreading through the room of the prophecies like the steady fall of rain. Henry could see what they were now, could see the shimmering orbs clearly, and abruptly knew why Mr. Weasley had been here; why he had been attacked. Why they were there now. Which meant two very capable wizards had begun their war, were likely somewhere near if the noise from the atrium was telling. He moved forward quietly, his pistol out and held tight, and followed the shadows to where he could hear another struggle going on.

The various rooms before him were confusing; he came upon a door that lead to a room full of hourglass chains, most likely Time Turners, and a misshapen Death Eater who seemed to be going through assorted stages of his life. Henry ignored him and moved onward. He came upon Ginny crouched over Ron, who seemed to be completely bamboozled. He had to dodge a Bat Bogey Hex from Ginny, but when she recognized him she screeched his name in absolute surprise. The stark relief in her eyes, the fear and the rage, made Henry unexpectedly angry. _What were they _doing _there_?

He knelt next to his best mate and checked him, and Ron didn't know what was happening or where he was at all.

"Will he be alright?" Ginny asked, kneeling as well and looking into his face worriedly.

Henry didn't know. "He'll be fine," he assured.

"Hermione's hurt too, she's in the other room, and Neville's somewhere around. Luna…she…she's still with him I think," Ginny babbled, so shaken up her hands were quivering. "We got a letter, from one of the Order, saying dad was in trouble. We didn't know…didn't think…." she choked.

"Gin," Henry said, placing both of his hands on her shoulders, shaking her a bit. "I'm going to give you a Portkey to The Burrow. I'll find your friends, but I need you to get out of here quickly."

"You're leaving with me!" she said demandingly. "So are the rest of us, Hermione's hurt, and Neville might be. I'll wait for them and then I'll go!"

Henry smiled at her soothingly. "I'll get them, they'll be along," he said. "But you have to trust me, okay?"

She looked as though she would not resolve to leaving without everyone but lost her fervor when she glanced down at her demented brother and shivered. "What about dad?" she asked, turning her desperate eyes on him.

"Your dad is fine, Gin," he said, and she sighed in abject relief. "He's at your house perfectly safe, but I need you to take the Portkey. I need you to trust me."

Ginny knew she could trust him, and that was what she would have to do.

He put a small golden watch in her hand. "Alright?" he asked quickly, and she nodded. "One…two…."

"Three," she finished, and her and her brother disappeared.

Henry made short work of finding the others, easily skirting past Death Eaters that came running by. The entire place was chaos, and he stood for a moment beside the blond girl Ginny had called Luna and closed his eyes. Dumbledore's mates seemed to be in the room with the veil, a furious fight waged between the powers of dark and light. He gave Luna their Portkey, hefting up the bushy haired girl and the boy plagued by dancing legs, and they too vanished from the danger of the Ministry. When they had gone, Henry sent his mind forward, and found the Dark Lord In the atrium.

As he made his way up to the top floor of the building, Henry felt his feet shake from the force of Dumbledore and the Dark Lord's spell casting. He wondered how exactly he would get past the old headmaster, but thought that perhaps the Dark Lord would be partial to a mutual chat in privacy. The two wizards seemed to be making good work of destroying the place, and Henry dodged a flying piece of a fountain as he popped into the shadows. Voldemort was in the middle of casting his notorious Fiendfyre, known for its control and precision, when he stopped and dissolved into smoke and darkness.

Henry followed him to another room. The same room with the doors, where his vision had taken place over and over again without revealing its meaning. Voldemort stood before him, in plain black robes that covered all of his face except for his eyes. Red, glowing eyes that reminded Henry of rubies. He stared back placidly.

"Harry Potter," the Dark Lord hissed, and his voice was like hot wax running down Henry's back. Altogether uncomfortable and pleasurable at the same time, he disturbingly found.

"Perhaps we could talk," Henry responded softly. It felt as though he wouldn't be able to yell or run or do much of anything while near this man. His power was so encompassing Henry felt as though he was paralyzed by its might. He felt fear, cold and sinking, begin to shake his resolve. He took a breath and calmed.

"You _are _Potter, are you not?" Voldemort asked again, and there was a note of impatience in his tone.

"It is likely," Henry said, moving forward sluggishly and almost hesitant. "Though I haven't been Harry Potter in a very long time."

"You disappeared."

"And yet, here I am," he retorted, his courage flooding back as if it had been locked away and longing to get out. "I want to make a deal with you," he said succinctly.

The snake-like features were more and more visible as Henry came closer, and they narrowed at his admission. The Dark Lord's expression changed from paranoid suspicion, to absolute glee in but a moment. "Oh? How very Slytherin of you. Not one to fight, are you? Cowardly, one might say."

"I love a good fight," Henry said with a curt shake of his head. "But your little _issue_ with Dumbledore isn't my battle."

"Ah," the Dark Lord hissed knowingly. "You do not know of the prophecy, I take it. Nor the reason you were attacked that night so long ago. Perhaps you'd like to learn of the reasons for it, or to know what your scar could possibly mean?"

Henry tilted his head to the side and frowned. "I guess that it says that I'm supposed to defeat you or some such nonsense," he speculated, and those red eyes widened. "I've got better plans, you know, to defy those prophetic words."

Voldemort remained silent, and Henry simply stared. "You are not at all what I expected," the dark wizard said broodingly.

"What _did_ you expect?" Henry asked, not sounding at all curious.

The man waved the question away, and motioned to Henry all in one go. Henry nodded and said, "My deal is this," he started, but then stopped and looked severe, "I do hope you know I'm allowing you the privilege of my weakness."

Voldemort dipped his head impatiently, and Henry smiled. "Good," he said. "You will not attack the Weasley family. They will come to no harm by your hands or the hands your men. The blood of the Weasleys is under no threat from you or your war. You will not only restrain yourself from hurting them, but you will protect them from any sort of injury as well."

An eyebrow rose that stopped him from proceeding. "You've a liking to the blood traitors?" the impressive wizard hissed.

Henry was not intimidated this time, and he glared. "I do," he confessed without shame.

Voldemort seemed to be able to let it go, and merely hummed with interest before saying, "And the other part of the deal?"

"I'll leave England, the war, and forswear the prophecy."

Despite the indifferent façade Voldemort was now utilizing, the stiffening of his shoulders and the small twitch of his chin rising displayed his shock and appeal. Henry knew it for what it was, because he did the same thing.

"What makes you think that matters to me at all?" Voldemort asked, quietly now.

Henry stepped forward again, those red eyes watching him as if he were a predator, or perhaps prey. "Because," Henry said, stopping in front of him. He reached out a hand and placed it over the robed chest, slim and likely cold underneath the cloth. "The same," he whispered.

The Dark Lord did not think that word appropriated the feeling of the boy's magic running though him. Familiar? Yes. Powerful? Unquestionably, and by Merlin he could admit the likeness was frightening. More that anything, however, it was startlingly symbiotic. So reliant upon each other were they that he felt shudders wrack them both at the power of their affiliation. Voldemort shook with the rapture of only a gentle touch, and felt desire run through him at meeting a piece of his soul. This blatant display meant than Harry Potter knew what he was, and most of all, it told Voldemort of the consequences should the boy seek to destroy him. Potter had turned out to be a survivalist, and he would not die for the greater good. Voldemort was very, very pleased.

He opened his eyes to meet the green of his matching soul. "I see your intention," Voldemort said, and the boy nodded and stepped away.

"I will leave the first moment I can," Henry promised. "I can trust you to uphold your end of the deal?"

The Dark Lord smiled slowly, like that of a man who thought himself untouchable. "The Weasleys are no matter," he said, " But I would rather you stay, now that I know you."

Henry seemed thoughtful at his words. "I would not," he disagreed, "I will come back when this war is over, for now I'll leave you to conquer." He bowed sweepingly and turned about on his heel, preparing to Apparate away.

"Such selfishness," Voldemort hissed to his back, and the hair on Henry's neck stood up and tingled with exposure. "When I have the world," the Dark Lord continued, "Will I have you as well? Or have you abandoned your kind completely?"

He felt his heart skip a beat, all at once hating and wanting and conflicting. Henry turned around again and stared at his adversary, his mind closed tighter than it had ever been, though he knew Voldemort could sense his deceit and was impressed with it. They both knew well how this game was played.

"We shall see," he said simply. The sound of dozens of Wizards scurrying towards the room drowned out the silent whisk of Henry Apparating away.

Voldemort was suddenly face to face with a crowd of Ministry personnel, and he smirked before he too disappeared from the department. He was in good spirits, he had a powerful and beautiful young man that carried his soul, whom had struck up a tentative alliance rather than fight him (a duel the Dark Lord would win, and what a waste it would be to have the lovely boy dead). Voldemort was rather happy, though his men had failed to retrieve the prophecy. He would not need to know it, if Potter refused to fight. All was certainly well for Lord Voldemort.

Henry, likewise, was very pleased at how the deal had turned out. He had every intention of double-crossing the man later (perhaps after he had connected a little bit more with all of Voldemort's glorious magic) but he had gotten exactly what he had wanted from the encounter. He was very happy with his success, intending to tell Denny about his victorious manipulations, and with a grin he Apparated once more from London to his room at Tyler's Manor.

The smile fell completely at the sight that waited for him.

.o00o.

It was loud. Impossibly loud. Or perhaps it was too silent, and the drip drop of thick blood hitting the ground was only amplified by the stillness.

_Drip drop. _

Henry breathed in, his jaw twitching until it dropped completely. He felt his eyes go dry and his mouth grow parched, and his fingers shook as they automatically clasped the pistol in his pocket; a contradictory source of comfort. The bed was a mass of red, and he briefly wondered if there was a body there, but his mind questioned and pointed out what his eyes were telling him.

They were seeing Francis Gabriel laying, mangled almost beyond all recognition and most assuredly dead. The bed they had made love in not hours ago was stained crimson, smelling of the putrid remains of his lover. Henry shook, his body numb and disbelieving, and felt his head jolt to the side abruptly. For the first time ever, the sight of a dead body made Henry lose the contents of his stomach. He gasped on all fours, feeling awful as the bile again rushed to the back of his throat, and his stomach rebelled and he retched again. He crawled away from the growing river of blood, sliding down the silk sheets and settling in globs of the thick red at the foot of the bed, and with the help of the mattress he raised himself up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

There was a noise from the door, and he swung his head around to see Tyler standing before him.

"I had to do it," the man was saying. "He was taking you away from me."

Henry saw the stained knife in the man's hand. Not a gun, but a knife. That special kind of hatred that made a man mutilate another man with a butcher knife, Henry didn't know, but could suddenly understand.

"He was going to hurt you," Tyler went on dazedly. "They both were. I'm protecting my family, Hen. My only family left."

Henry tore his eyes away from the weapon and straightened up. He did not look at the bed again, nor his pile of sick. Short of breath from the nausea, he gasped, "Where's Denny?"

"Where's Denny, you ask?" Tyler repeated, and then started to laugh. "I've taken care of him too, Hen. It's _all_ taken care of."

"Where is he?" Henry said, moving up to Tyler quickly. He held the insane man by the shoulders, his eyes wide and desperate and furious. "Where is he?!" he screamed at Tyler. "_Where_?!"

"I set him up, Hen, on a hit," Tyler whispered. "Alexander Landon, he was working with Zabini, you know? Double-crossing me. I'll take care of them later," he finished, torpidly triumphant.

"What did you do, Patty?" Henry asked softly, breathlessly.

"That Horst man," Tyler smiled, and then chuckled as if it were a grand joke. "He's a cop," he said in a hushed voice. "He's a cop and we set Denny up."

Henry felt his chest clench, and he tried hopelessly not to go mad and destroy everything within reach. The fire he hadn't felt in so long raged up inside him and left his blood pumping with anticipation and agony. It wanted out so very badly, but Henry was in control, and he took a large breath and lowered his head. As he got a hold of himself, he could hear Tyler laughing beside him.

"It's just you and I now, Hen," Tyler chortled, his bloodshot eyes watching Henry closely. "Just you and I," he repeated over and over like a litany. "Would you like to know what Gabriel said before he died?"

Henry stared at him, and Tyler grinned. "_A la claire fontaine_," he said slowly. "_M'en allant promener, J'ai trouvee l'eau si belle_."

"_Que je m'y suis baigne_," he finished for the man, and Tyler began to sing the song in a whisper. Henry reached out and told him to stop.

"Stop now," he said to his unhinged boss. "Where is he? At Landon's place?"

"_Il y a longtemps que je t'aime, jamais je ne t'oublirai,_" Tyler murmured. He tried to get into Tyler's mind to find Denny's location, but the man's head was all fluff and fog. He closed his eyes and reached out with his magic, in an attempt to recognize Denny somewhere close, but there was no sign of him anywhere. Henry snapped out of it as Tyler continued to sing softly.

"Patty, _please_!" Henry begged, shaking the man so hard the knife dropped to the floor, he merely stepped over it to grasp at Tyler again. "Tell me where he is!"

"Horst's place," Tyler suddenly divulged. "He left only a half hour ago."

Henry breathed a bit easier. Perhaps he would be in time to save Denny, for it can't have been long since Francis had been killed and Denny had left on assignment. He took a moment to look at Tyler. What he saw, uncharacteristically, made Henry sad.

"You're not well, are you, mate?" he said, reaching out to touch the man's cheek. "We've given you a bad time of it, haven't we?"

Tyler stared at him with glazed eyes. "It's all over now," said the man. "I've finished it," he whispered loudly.

Henry nodded. "I know you have. You've been good to me," _but not good enough._ "I'm thankful," _You won't live. _"I'm sorry," _I'm not sorry. _

Tyler didn't have time to scream in pain, his body was dissolving much too fast for that, and in Henry's cupped hands there was, in a moment, only ash where he had once held that solid arm. It floated to the ground listlessly, and Henry turned his palm over and let the remains drop. He cleared the room of blood and body, ash and touch, and left to salvage the last of his family.

.o00o.

He heard the chatter of the police before he saw them. The flashing lights in front of the London townhouse cast eerie shadows on the serious faces of the men standing on the street. It had gotten cold outside, terribly cold, and Henry briefly said goodbye to an English summer before he let out a strangled yell. He didn't know what he meant by that shout, because it wasn't very loud and it hadn't carried to the men standing in the dim light of the lamppost. He felt his chest throb with disappointment, anger, and other unnamed emotions he couldn't quite put words to. Stepping forward, with the intention to do what, he didn't know, he barely made it out of the shrubbery before he slunk back and out of sight.

Denny was being led to a police car, cuffed and quiet, and Henry looked out at his father, debating whether he could get him out of this mess. The numerous bobbies at Horst's place would be hard to overcome, and though his heart told him to move forward and grab Denny up from captivity-his head told him to stay away. All his interference would get him would likely be death or imprisonment right alongside his father. Henry knew he would be of little help then.

_We should leave. _

The words swirled around his mind, a sing-song mockery of his remorse and his pain. He crouched low in the bushes as Denny was placed in the car, as his father was taken away.

_We should leave. _

"We should have left," Henry said to himself, almost silently.

His body remained motionless, watching as an innocent bystander by all appearances and seeing the prime form of justice being accomplished in front of him. Surely the bobbies looked pleased, as though they had caught and tamed a mad man, as if Denny were evil and nothing much else and deserving of the highest sort of punishment Britain would allow. Henry knew better, because it was his father they were glorified about catching, and he knew that Denny was guilty of nothing but doing his job.

He watched as the car pulled away, taking the last tie that he had, and suddenly his heart _ached _and all Henry wanted to do was chase the car down. To set fire to those happy-faced cops and snatch his father out of the auto and from there to safety; as he should have done months prior. The only good thing to come of this mess, Henry thought recklessly, holding fast against his need to chase after Denny, was that his father would be safe from the mistakes of the son in prison. Denny wouldn't have to suffer Henry any longer.

_Mistakes, mistakes, mistakes. _

He would never make them again. The car drove out of sight and Henry turned on his heel and moved through the streets, unsure of where he was really going. His magic seemed to know, however, and it grabbed him fast and Apparated him away to somewhere he would feel safe. A place where he could settle down.

When he opened his eyes, not realizing he had closed them at all, Henry was on a very familiar lawn, and in front of him was a house he knew and loved. He very nearly collapsed onto the grass, so relieved he was, but his legs shuffled forward and he knocked quickly and loudly on the door of the Burrow. Arthur opened it, looking much better than the last time Henry had seen him, and rather than appearing surprised that Henry was there, his face bared only relief.

Arthur grabbed him around the shoulders and held him close. "You saved his life," he whispered in Henry's ear. "You saved him."

For a moment, Henry had no idea what Arthur was talking about. He thought at first that Mr. Weasley was speaking of Denny, and made to object, "I haven't! I didn't even _try_!" But before he could blurt out something hysterical, he realized Arthur was talking about Ron. Instantly, Henry was pulling out of the hug and staring into the man's face.

"How is he?" he asked, desperate for _someone _to be alright.

Arthur nodded, his eyes wet. "Scarred, but we all are. Frightened, we are that," he wiped a quick hand across his eyes. "He'll be fine, Chris."

The man moved forward again, but Henry drew back, ashamed. Arthur nodded his understanding, and smiled at him gently.

"Dumbledore is curious," he warned.

"I'm leaving."

Mr. Weasley sighed and looked away, resigned. "I thought you would," he said as lightly as he could.

"Your family," Henry cleared his throat and did not meet Arthur's stare. "I've made a deal of sorts. Your family won't be hurt. Not ever again."

Arthur stepped closer in alarm, reaching for him, and Henry moved out of the way self-consciously. "What have you done?" Arthur asked breathlessly.

"It's not a great expense, I…" Henry clenched his eyes shut and then opened them again, giving a short nod to the house. "You'll keep them safe?"

Knowing he wouldn't hear anymore on the matter, Mr. Weasley backed down wisely and simply looked Henry over from the tips of his toes to his ruffled black hair. He dipped his head in concession. "I will, Chris…."

"Don't," Henry interrupted, his hands clenching into fists. "Just don't. I have to go."

"I know," Arthur allowed.

Henry hugged the man again, the warmth of his kindness shocking and alien every single time. Arthur seemed to have nothing but acceptance for him, and Henry felt comforted to have the man as family. To have this family as his own. He held on tightly, and Mr. Weasley gave as good as he got.

When they drew back, Henry handed him the pistol he had taken so long ago, his first true love, his most valuable possession given to his first true family. The original .45 he had stolen what seemed like ages ago.

"It's not loaded," he informed the surprised man. "Just, keep it for me, will you? Until the next time we meet?"

Arthur hesitated, likely to be disapproving of the Muggle weapon in his custody, but found Henry's eyes too insistent, and too helpless.

"Alright," he agreed, and Henry smiled and stepped away.

"Take care of them, sir," he said, knowing Arthur would do so even without the request. "I'll be seeing you," Henry told him softly.

Not a lie exactly, but Henry hadn't added 'soon', because he would make no more false promises. He would do his best to not make anymore mistakes.

Arthur whispered to the empty yard, after the sigh of Henry's departure had seemed effortlessly final, "See you," and he added to himself with hope, "soon."


	13. Chapter Twelve

A/N: Hello! Gots the next chapter for you. I had a lot of fun typing this up, and I even added a few Lebowski inspired lines. Thanks to everyone who reviewed last chapter, I'm glad that you all exist (that sounded odd). Anyway, I'm going to babble for a mo' even though I don't know if you guys even read the author's notes (?). I love that you guys put this story on your favorites and your alerts (it's like a review saying, hey, I like) but I'd appreciate a few words from the crowd on the sidelines. Let your voices be heard! On that note, I had quite a few new reviewers last chapter, so welcome you guys and a warning: the novelty of me responding with War and Peace will wear off. Thanks everyone!

A Few Responses: Kantarose: your day sounds like my day :p. So, you're hooked are you? That makes me happy, because it's another fine friend to respond to every week. Yes, I said it, feedbackers are my friends, I luff them. You do flatter me too much, Kantarose, though I was happy for days after I got your review! I'm glad you liked Voldemort, he will be in this story quite a bit once we catch up with the present. He's an awful jerk, but I do love writing him. What sort of crime novels do you read? I love crime novels!

Ncgal: exams...how ghastly! I'm in much the same state, ncgal, and I've stressed myself out with updating and editing and working and school and doing everything all at once so my hair is now perpetually bushy. Not Hermione style...ick. Anyway, I apologize for the chapter being so sad, this one is better. There won't be angst like chappie 11 for quite a while. Oh! And about re-writing the DoM scene. I hate it when authors do that too! It drives me crazy, because I've read it before and I don't really want to read it again! I'm glad you liked how I condensed that part...I didn't want to waffle. Love ya!

Dedicated to: My personal therapist, BFFFE, and creative genius Amazonia. Less than fucking three. Which would be, f3.

Warnings for this chapter: violence, gore, prostitution (sort of), and a bad language warning.

* * *

Pistol Whipped

Chapter Twelve

When Henry first crossed the Atlantic, weary from the exceedingly uncomfortable long-distance Portkey, he had set his sights on the U.S. for the prospect of an opportunity. A place where he could make connections, start over on a clean slate, and work his way towards some sort of satisfactory end. Wasn't he always hearing about America and aspiration and wishes and the lot? Didn't people look to the vast country that worked like a well-oiled machine for the chance of living the _American Dream_? No one could dispute that they didn't, but luckily enough, Henry was nowhere near as optimistic as the humanitarians that lived in the godforsaken place. The only similarity between those _other_ immigrants and him, was that he too was at rock bottom.

Henry had a philosophy of irony, that asserted that the best things would happen if one could think ill of them first. The premise itself was ironic, given most believed the contrary but Henry had thought badly of living with Denny, and it had turned out to be quite acceptable. He had thought well of Tyler, and Tyler had betrayed him. The theory of irony, Henry knew, was what Denny would have called "banjaxed bullshit" and he supposed it really was.

He utilized his values in regard to his journey. Thinking it would be hard to rise in a city like New York, had allowed for his first two days in the city to remain uneventful, but then after that first forty-eight (against impossible odds) his theory had been proven right. It turned out, and Henry really was quite pleased, that his reputation in England had traveled right along with him to the states. He barely got a hotel room, a good nights sleep and a few drinks, before the phone had rung, and puzzled, Henry had stared at it cautiously, wondering who on earth had known he would be in New York.

Wild thoughts ran through his head, that it was Denny and his one phone call, because Denny would know where he was considering he had told his son to run (if needed) to Manhattan. That it was a cop calling to warn Henry of international crime, or perhaps Tyler, who had come back from the dead as a zombie and/or vampire consumed with bloodlust. The phone continued to ring, and Henry scoffed (zombies? Really?) and answered.

It was Frank McAllister instead.

"I wanted to welcome you to the states, Mr. Brooks. I was in contact with your father for many years," the man was saying, in a gruff voice most likely scratchy from years of smoking.

All Henry could think was, _how in the fuck did he know I was here? _So, completely tongue-tied, Henry said, "How the fuck did you…" he swallowed nervously. "How did you know I was _here_?"

McAllister laughed. "Your father called me not a week ago asking me to welcome you once you got in New York. I had my people watch for your arrival," he explained.

"So you're his connect," Henry said absently, remembering the man that was supposed to have met them at the bar in London.

He bit his lip to keep the anger at bay. Why hadn't Denny's friend met them? Perhaps if he had Henry and his father wouldn't be in the mess they were in now. Also, there hadn't been any negotiations on housing the two, because the Dickens fellow had decided not to show up. McAllister was acting as though the meeting had never been set, that Henry and Denny hadn't been slighted, but then his voice was airy with placidity, suggesting the man had no idea what had gone down in England in the last few days. Henry was bemused and furious all at once, but McAllister was still talking and he made himself pay attention.

"…suppose we can have lunch soon. I assume your father is with you and I haven't seen Denny in about ten years," Frank went on, and Henry nodded to himself. _So he doesn't know. Wonderful. _

"Denny's in prison."

"Pardon?" and then McAllister really said it, "_What_?"

"Yeah," Henry stated rather calmly. "Suppose I'll tell you about it when I see you," he said.

When McAllister next spoke, Henry could hear a smile on the man's face. "Of course," he coughed into the receiver. "How about the bar downstairs? Eight tonight? Or are you fucked up from the jetlag?"

"No, that's fine," he tapped his thigh inattentively, "eight is swell."

"Great," Frank said, and the inflection in the man's accented voice was obviously cheerful. "I look forward to meeting you," he smiled.

The man hung up after that, rather swiftly, and Henry admired it for a moment. McAllister seemed to be a very straight-forward man, and though Henry would probably _never_ trust him, he rather thought he might _like_ the man already. He sat down on the side of the bed and put his head into his hands. The rush of getting out of England as fast as possible had worn off, and he was feeling a bit overwhelmed. When he closed his eyes, he saw Francis in a mass of blood and gore, spread-eagled on his bed, and when he opened them, he saw Denny being escorted out of the house in cuffs. In one fell swoop, Henry lost two of the most important people in his life. He breathed in and out deeply, and flopped down on his bed to stare at the ceiling.

He thought about the mistakes he had made. The terrible decision to stay until Tyler completely snapped, provoking the man until he did, and the consequences of his actions. Francis was dead, and Denny was in a place that Henry couldn't reach. He realized, suddenly, that he missed them. Henry sat up quickly, itching to do something-anything-and settled on the balcony after a round of pacing to have a smoke. He had perhaps ten, or fifteen, possibly a pack. He was pensive for a long while, and the skyline disappeared in the darkness of dusk, and reemerged as thousands of lights mimicking stars. He sat and listened to the sound of the street below him, the cars, the distant screech of the underground, and blew smoke into the sky and watched it fade away. The phone rang.

"Mr. Brooks, a Mr. McAllister is in the bar for you," the hotel worker told him, and Henry cursed and looked at the time. It was exactly eight o'clock and he had somewhere to be. "Well fuck, how long has he been there?"

"Only a minute, sir," the man said in a comforting tone.

Henry grabbed up his coat and nodded into the mouth piece, "thanks mate," he said.

"You're welcome, sir."

He replaced the receiver and huffed out of the room, shocked that four hours had come and gone with him dallying about and feeling sorry for himself. He took the lift down to the main floor, stepping briefly in front of the mirrors to check his appearance.

"Impeccable as always," he said to himself, and sighed. He certainly didn't feel as infallible as he looked.

Henry pushed away the gloomy cobwebs that were crawling through his tired head, and entered the bar.

.o00o.

Frank sat himself down at the table and made sure his suit was straightened and smooth. He waved the waiter away to wait for the kid, and took a Zippo out of his pocket. He flicked it on and off impatiently, his eyes scanning the place. The boy had sounded rather befuddled on the phone, and Frank hoped the son of Brooks wasn't a little slow. The thought was banished quickly, because he had heard quite a bit about Henry Christopher Brooks, and not from Denny.

Supposedly, the young man was extremely talented, dangerously clever, and a merciless asshole. He was the perfect lapdog for a boss, talk of his loyalty supported that, and apparently indifferent when it came to less than moral work. Denny had mentioned their breaking away from Patrick Tyler (whom Frank hated with a passion) and he had taken the advantage of snatching up the duo to his side without hesitation. Tyler was an idiot for throwing them away.

Among the cliques that Frank and Tyler circulated, Henry and Denny Brooks were the best mercenaries money could buy, and with their detachment from the English boss, the people in the business had all rushed to be first in line to proposition them. Fortunately, Frank was an old acquaintance of Denny, and he had gotten word of the separation before anyone else. Things for Franklin McAllister, were certainly looking up!

But then the boy had told him of Denny's incarceration. Frank knew his friend could take care of himself, especially in a prison of all things, but he mourned the chance at having such a adept killer on his side. He would have to settle for the adoptive son, who had a more sinister reputation than his father, oddly enough. Frank didn't believe a lot of what was said on the streets, but chose to give the lad the benefit of the doubt anyway.

It wasn't until he actually _saw_ Henry Brooks that he was forced to learn how to speak again, and it wasn't until he actually had a conversation with him that Frank was forced to founder his previous assumptions. An advantage, indeed.

The boy, or young man, Frank corrected himself, was perhaps the most attractive thing he had seen in many years. The aesthetic form of his body, the head that rose unconsciously with cool buoyancy, that small tilt of the chin that spoke of polite curiosity, and the eyes…those eyes that burned into him with more and more ferocity as they came closer. An impossible green they were, with impractical depth and terribly possible danger. Frank found himself on his feet as the host approached with the young man in tow, so startlingly brilliant in comparison to the average New York waiter. Frank couldn't help but sweep his eyes over the bar, before gazing at the young man who was now seated in front of him. Startling wasn't an apt enough word, nor was brilliant. Frank sat back down, and managed to reach out a hand for Henry to shake.

"Frank McAllister," he introduced, a little strained, "I've heard a lot about you."

Henry had an impassive, slightly bored look on his face, and where Frank would usually be offended-he found that he was rather hurt instead. He looked away awkwardly as Henry crossed his legs underneath the table.

"Right, what exactly did Denny say to you?" the boy asked, right to business.

But business was the last thing Frank had on his mind. He could quite possibly swoon at that voice, sure and steady accented English that felt like silk on his ears. Denny sounded much the same (certainly not as pleasurable) but similar. There was a slight Scottish brogue in Henry's tone, a rolling of the R's from being around Denny, and the traditional Cockney mixed with a sweet and smooth Southern pretentiousness. Everything that could be known about this boy could probably be divulged in his accent alone, but Frank wasn't wise in the art of English provinces, and thought it irrelevant considering just how sensual the lad sounded when he spoke, so distracting was it.

Henry was waiting however, tapping his knife against his plate, and Frank swallowed and said, "he simply told me that you two were having some trouble with Patrick Tyler."

"Can I get you gentlemen something to drink?"

Henry addressed the waiter without taking his intense stare off of Frank. "I'm supposing your legal drinking age is not sixteen," he said, and it wasn't a question.

The waiter licked his lips nervously. "It's twenty-one," he answered.

Henry finally turned to the server and grinned, and Frank noticed the young man's blush and slight intake of breath a half a second before he reacted in much the same way. _By God _but the boy was stunning.

"Then Mr. McAllister here will have two bourbons and a scotch on the rocks," Henry said, and then turned to Frank. "That was what you wanted, right mate?"

Frank could only nod.

"I…" the waiter stuttered, and then seemed to think better of it. "Of course, sir," he nodded and then left.

Henry turned his attention back to Frank, who was grudgingly impressed. The lad hadn't given the poor waiter the power to refuse him, an excellent trait that would work wonders in a city like New York.

"You were saying," Henry prompted him, and Frank focused.

"Yes," he cleared his throat. "Your father mentioned some trouble with Patrick Tyler. Something about drinking too much and having some sort of issue that he couldn't shake."

Receiving his drink with a charming smile, Henry lit a cigarette and sipped his drink. "Did he say anything else?" he asked without looking away from the table cloth.

Frank realized, belatedly, that Henry Brooks was testing him. He wanted to know if Frank had really spoken to Denny, and he almost cursed aloud at having not understood it sooner. All of the information he'd given so far, was probably common knowledge in some circles. Hell, Denny being Denny probably hadn't told his son anything that would compromise the plans for the move to New York, leaving Henry blind in a place he didn't know. He leaned forward with a sigh.

"Denny also mentioned," he started, shuffling his feet, "that you both wouldn't be leaving England until you had cut ties with your family there."

That made Henry sit up straight, with a raised eyebrow in Frank's direction that told him that information was private and only something Denny would have the liberty to give out. Which meant to Henry that Frank was truly a friend of Denny, and it was all the boy needed to relax minutely and smile across the table at Frank. Who promptly got a hard on.

"Tyler betrayed us," Henry said candidly, unaware of Frank's problem. "An informant named Horst was a bobby, and they got Denny in the middle of a hit. I don't know where they've taken him, or how long he'll be there."

Frank licked his lips and pushed down his arousal, knowing it was time for their conversation to turn dismal. "Where's Tyler now?" he asked, and he watched the lad's expression closely. It did not change from the same apathy shown all night, a feeling that was probably normal for Henry Brooks.

"Tyler's dead."

Frank's jaw twitched. "_Patrick Tyler _is dead?" he repeated, "Patrick Tyler?"

Henry nodded, flicking the ash off of his cigarette and taking a sip of his nearly empty drink. "Dead as I've ever seen him," he said, his voice scratchy.

Which meant someone was now in line for the "boss-man" position, because England had just lost their King. Frank could barely believe it, and he looked away for a moment and laughed shortly. He shook his head, turning back, and asked, "how?"

With a blink, the lad's face melted into something completely inert, and Frank wondered at the difference in the expression of indifference, and the face of a man who held nothing but coldness for his fellows.

"Do you honestly think I would allow the man to live after what he did?" Henry said softly. "He betrayed me, and my father. He was reckless, and stupid. A man who is not loyal, who does not bite the bullet and handle what the world gives us with the utmost respectability, is rather a useless man. Useless men I _cannot_ abide, Mr. McAllister."

"Frank," he absently corrected, and sat back in his seat. "We can get Denny out, Brooks," he said.

"Henry," the boy retorted, finishing his drink just as the waiter came back with more. "Call me Henry, if you'll allow me to call you Frank, Frank," he said, and then ended it all with cheeky smile. Frank flushed, but continued.

"There's always people to bribe," he mentioned rather obviously. "With enough money, we could retrieve your father as soon as possible."

Henry thought that was wishful thinking, because it was highly likely Denny would have a sentence without the possibility of parole, and if it were so, Frank McAllister's money wouldn't do a damn bit of good. He _did _need help, however, and the man _was _offering….

"What do you want in return?" Henry asked.

Frank raised both of his hands defensively, and tried to look offended. "Can't I want to help an old pal of mine? Can't I be altruistic with no ulterior motives at all?"

"No."

He laughed, and looked into those bright eyes with a smile. "Alright," he gave in, "work for me, kid. I run a good business, substance and weapons. Do some trafficking jobs for me, a little of this, a little of that, and you've got yourself a deal."

"Weapons?" Henry said, his interest piqued, "I would be obligated to accept if a good pistol comes with it."

Frank grinned and swirled the melting ice around in his drink. "Any pistol you want," he agreed, "though for the pistol, I'm going to need something else from you."

Henry lifted his chin. "What is it?" he queried stonily.

He leaned forward and motioned for the boy to do the same. "I want you lighten up," Frank told him in a whisper. "I don't know how they do it across the pond, but you're walking around like you got a hot pole shoved up your ass."

For the first time all night, the boy threw his head back and laughed. The sound was almost as pleasant as everything else about him, or possibly better than everything else that made the boy one of the loveliest things Frank had ever met. The laughter was contagious, and Frank chortled in good humor with him.

"Alright, Frankie," Henry said, smiling, "I'll be less English, does that suffice?"

"Not really," Frank commented, knocking back the other scotch, "nobody under the age of fifty says suffice." He got back on track then, "so, what about our deal? I'm in need of a good hit man, and some talented employees. Though you would certainly have the option of quitting at any time. I'm not a tyrant. England may call you home, after all."

There, a mention of his options again, and a sort duplicitous trust between them. Frank smiled.

"Sure," Henry returned, sinking back into his seat. "I enjoy the sort of work you're offering anyway," he nodded.

Frank didn't doubt it.

"You do understand though, mate," the young man suddenly said, with a sort of look that made Frank want to retract the offer. That made him want to run away and hide. "That I could easily get Denny out without any help. That if any self-important boss decided to double-cross me, I am both judge and executioner."

He swallowed a bit and dipped his head. "Write that on your resume, did you?" he asked jokingly.

Henry grinned pleasantly. "I'm overqualified, but it will do," he cheeked.

Frank developed a shaking of his head that wouldn't stop for at least a minute, until he calmed a bit and felt a little less anxious. Surely, these threats were all apart of the business, and never before had they made Frank feel inferior. Henry Brooks made him feel just that, like a little kid who'd been given a gun and didn't know how to use it. And Henry was the gun. He licked his lips and nodded again. "Right," he said, "I'm guessing Tyler didn't take those words to heart."

"No, he didn't."

"I'm more powerful than Patrick Tyler," Frank told him, finding courage (or stupidity) somewhere in himself. The adrenaline of his daring diminished completely when the boy laughed at him. _Laughed_ at him!

"Indubitably!" Henry said, and he was mocking. "But hey, Frankie?" he opened his arms and motioned to himself, tilting his head with a sympathetic grimace, and Frank got the message. _You're just not the cat's meow, sorry, that would be me. _

"Got it," Frank said with strained grin. "But you need me kid, don't you?" he asked, knowing very well that Henry did, "I mean, what with the cops getting your dad, they'd know exactly what your profession was-"

"Denny wouldn't sell me out," Henry interrupted, protesting, "they already know what I do, I can handle them by myself."

The boy suddenly seemed angry, and Frank frowned. He watched as Henry fidgeted in his seat, lighting another cigarette and crossing his arms. "I do need you though," Henry admitted quietly. "I needed you months ago," he looked back at Frank and pointed his cigarette at him, "but your man never came."

"Wait, what?" Frank said, turning his ear towards the boy. "What man are you talking about?"

Henry lost his fury, and there was a telling light to his eyes as he sat up and stared at Frank closely. "Dickens," he said slowly, "the man who's partial to Dickens."

"John?" Frank said, puzzled, "I never sent John to England."

"You didn't get a missive from Denny about the meeting?" Henry asked, continuing to glare. He met Frank's eyes without faltering, and it was beginning to make the man very uncomfortable. Yet he felt paralyzed, unwilling and incapable of breaking their locked stares. His head began to hurt.

"No," Frank said, blinking, "Denny only asked to take care of you if you crossed over to the U.S.. We never spoke about a meeting."

The pressure against his eyes suddenly receded, and Frank gave a sigh of relief as he rubbed his temples. Henry nodded absently and took a drag. "Then we were set up," the kid speculated aloud.

"No shit," Frank looked at him, askance.

"No," Henry said, turning to glower at him. "We were set up by someone other than the cops. Someone intercepted Denny's mail to you. Very few people can do that without getting lost in the post and losing their lead. Someone set us up and it wasn't some lowly constable like Horst Baum, it was someone who had the power, the resources, and the talent to do so."

Frank cleared his throat. "So what? They wanted Denny put away and you dead, that it?" he said. "Seems like a lot of work to get rid of you two."

"They knew how hard it would be to get Denny out," the lad continued to brainstorm. "They knew I wouldn't want to help him escape because it wouldn't be a life for him. The life of an escaped convict is a short one."

He took another drag and continued. "Denny didn't have much besides Tyler, I'll have you know. I could take care of him, but he would resent me for it. No, when I get him out he'll have no need for concern, and when I get him out I'll do it in a way that won't entail playing my hand too early. I want everyone that made this happen to be dead before he gets out. I won't lose him again," Henry stopped and stared away, before cracking his neck.

Frank had no idea that he was seeing Henry Brooks successfully planning a master of a maneuver. Weighing pros and cons carefully in his head, but quickly. Frank did, however, understand how calculating the young man was, and how strategic he seemed to be. Consequently, these attributes made Henry a very dangerous young man, because there was no real need for firepower when one could be smarter than the gun.

"There are other factors as well," Henry went on, but looked at him this time, "boundaries in certain worlds that would be broken. I have no wish to draw attention from certain groups."

Frank had no idea what _that _meant, but let it go in favor of shoving a piece of gum into his mouth. Henry looked at it like a dog wanting scraps, and Frank gave him a stick with a small smile.

Chomping in that satisfied way of his, Henry continued, "I could build a life for Denny here," he said, "a life better than the one he's had and I could take care of him, keep him safe once we get him out."

"There's no flaw in your logic that I can see," Frank said, tapping his fingers on the edge of his glass.

"I was hoping there wasn't," Henry agreed, "In the meantime, Denny can stay in prison for a few months. He'll have them scared shitless while he's in there, so he's safe enough."

Frank laughed. "That he will," he said, "no matter how old Brooks gets, he still kicks ass."

"No," Henry objected. "He doesn't need to any longer," he smiled to himself, "He's a legend that can't be touched and _I'm _the muscle out of the both of us."

"Don't look like much, kid, if you don't mind me saying so," Frank said, tipping his glass down to fish out the ice chips at the bottom of his glass. He crunched, and Henry cringed.

"Hmm," Henry acknowledged and then stubbed out his smoke.

"Are we in agreement?" Frank asked, when it looked like the boy was done with him and preparing to leave. He ignored how worried his voice was. "You can stay at my place, most of my guys do anyway, and we'll set up an account for you and Denny…." he stopped at the expression on Henry's face.

They were silent for a moment, listening to the various chatter around them, the muffled music and tinkering china, and then Henry said, "Perhaps a good nights sleep will put things into perspective."

Frank felt slighted, and hurt. What had he said to push the boy away? Feeling disappointed and upset, Frank shook Henry's hand and must have projected the emotion quite clearly, because Henry grinned at him.

"No worries, Frankie," Henry winked. "You're my best bet right now," he clarified and grabbed his coat, "thanks for the drinks. I'll ring you tomorrow."

As the adoptive son of the best mercenary Frank had ever known made his way out of the bar, Frank sat back down and couldn't resist smiling into the last of his bourbon. He watched the back of Henry disappear without shame, before paying the bill and shaking his head in amusement. Frank wasn't one to assume things, but he felt reasonably safe saying that he had struck gold with the little Brooks. Gold he planned on keeping.

.o00o.

In a white truck outside of the Hilton in Manhattan, FBI Agent Marshall Donnelly stared at the profile of the young man McAllister had propositioned. His heart murmur had nothing whatsoever to do with the five cups of coffee he'd had that morning. The shortness of breath was not from running. Marks swiveled around in his chair to look at him concernedly, but Donnelly ignored him. Instead, he wrestled the headset off of his ears and slammed it onto the keyboard. "Shit!" he yelled at no one in particular.

.o00o.

Frank wasn't entirely sure that Henry would call him. He had left the Hilton in good spirits, but the next day had come and was now nearly gone, and there still hadn't been a call from the boy. He wondered what he had done wrong, whether or not he'd said or done something irredeemable in Henry's eyes. Perhaps he was too sincere with Brooks, too much of a pushover. Frank honestly had no idea, and it made him rather despondent, and quite visibly forlorn.

He told McKay (his right hand man in everything but nothing) about the bright young man he had met, not even excluding the instant attraction he'd felt towards the lad. In which McKay had replied, with no little disdain:

"Are you _fucking_ with me?"

Frank flushed. "No, but you'll see what I mean when you meet him. If you meet him, I should say," he finished morosely.

"Sure, boss."

"He's obviously very talented," Frank prattled on, "but obviously doesn't trust me, which makes him obviously perfect for the job. In fact, I think he may be the most pulchritudinous endeavor I've ever sought to take advantage of."

John had been nodding along with his words, taking quick little drags off of his smoke, but at the end of the diatribe he stopped his head shaking and stared at Frank, aghast.

"Did you just say pulchritudinous?" he asked, his eyebrows vanishing into his hairline.

Frank pursed his lips and gave a short nod.

John brought his cigarette back up and inhaled. "Pretentious bastard," he grumbled.

"You're a fucking asshole."

"Sure, boss."

Needless to say, John seemed less than impressed with the nearly sixteen year old boy Frank was trying to recruit as a hit man. Then again, John hadn't seen the kid yet, so he had no right to pass judgment. Though, when Frank really thought about it, it sounded rather ridiculous, wanting a teenager to kill people for him. Henry Brooks's reputation, however, proceeded him and Frank was pretty sure the boy was a good investment.

He happened to be seated at his desk when there was a commotion from outside, and he sat up warily, expecting another tussle with Dex. He was infinitely surprised when the door opened to admit a very amused looking Henry.

"I had to put your guard in a sleeper hold, sorry," the boy said, first thing.

Frank took off his reading glasses and put his papers down. "Pardon?" he asked gruffly.

"He was a bit mad about me strolling in here, thought I was an assassin or something."

About the same time that Henry finished speaking and leant down to tie his shoe, John busted into the room with a gun held aloft matched only in its hostility by his glare.

"Where is he?" the man yelled, nearly tripping over the kid in his haste to plow through the office.

Frank sighed. "McKay, meet Henry Brooks. Henry Brooks, this is John McKay," he introduced, waving a hand.

"Oh," John said smartly, and Henry got back to his feet as the gun (which John had seemingly forgotten he still wielded) came in line with his nose.

Henry reached out and took the weapon from him so fast that Frank blinked and John gaped. "This is a beautiful revolver," Henry complimented, examining it critically. When he was finished, he gave the gun back and said simply, "you take care of your weapons."

"I do," John agreed, still appearing harried.

Henry smiled pleasantly. "I like that in a man," he tittered, "It's a pleasure, McKay."

The boy sat himself down on the chair in front of Frank and grinned, knowing without eyes in the back of his head that McKay was tomato red. Frank motioned to John impatiently, beckoning him to sit down, and the man did so if not cautiously.

"I've decided to take you up on your offer, Frankie," Henry said without preamble. "It sounds like an exemplary alternative."

Frank smiled, pleased, and crossed his hands in a triumphant sort of way. "Will you be staying in the house? As you can see, we have plenty of room for you," he expressed his hope without deception that the boy would stay close. From beside the impassive looking Henry, John fidgeted and scratched his nose.

"Well," Henry started, pausing and throwing one leg over the other. It was casually lovely. "It seems roomy enough, I'm sure," he said, glancing at Frank, "and you know, the Hilton is so very expensive…."

"You will be paid for taking the job, don't get me wrong," Frank clarified, and then added, "on top of this house at your disposal."

Henry smiled at John, catching him staring. "McKay," he addressed the man, who widened his eyes comically, "do you like living here?"

Slightly awkward about being put on show randomly, John cleared his throat and straightened. "Yes, it's a nice as place as any. The cook is good," he said.

"You've a cook, then?"

"Frank would burn down the goddamn house if he didn't," John told him, "the man can't even boil water."

"I absolutely can you unpleasant son of a bitch," Frank snapped.

"Sure, boss."

Frank saw that Henry looked absurdly comfortable with their familiar rapport, and he nodded in the boy's direction. "Don't mind him, he's fond of Dickens," he explained, and Henry's head snapped up quickly.

"So _you're _Dickens," the boy said.

"No," John objected, looking alarmed, "I'm pretty sure that guy is dead."

"No," Henry waved the comment, "you're the bloke who's fond of Dickens."

McKay pointed at Frank. "He just said that!" he nearly shouted.

Henry smiled, barely holding in a laugh, and flipped his wrist in John's direction as if to say, _Oh, stop it. _

"I suppose you'll be staying at the Hilton for now?" Frank suddenly asked, changing the subject as John did a double take and frowned at the boy. They were getting along splendidly, if Frank was right in thinking so.

Henry shook his head in an affirmative. "I need to pack. I've paid for four days anyway, so I'd best get my money's worth."

"Good," Frank nodded, standing along with Henry to shake hands. "I'm sure this arrangement will benefit all of us," he said.

John stood up as well, but tiredly. He smirked at Frank and brought a cigarette up to his mouth, "Oh yeah," he said, "with such a pulchritudinous asset we can be sure to benefit from it expeditiously."

"Did you just say pulchritudinous?" Henry asked.

McKay grinned at Frank obnoxiously, who rolled his eyes. "Sure did," he chortled, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

Quick as a whip, Henry said, "Sesquipedalian assholes," and grinned.

"Oh, fuck!" John laughed, pointing his smoke at Frank as if it were a gun. "He got us there, boss!" he said, guffawing so loudly it had to have hurt.

Frank sniggered as well, and couldn't help but think, as John and Henry got along so famously, that it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. He immediately grimaced, and took a swig of the whiskey bottle on his desk, muttering, "here's looking at you, kid."

Henry, who was on his way out and stepping over the sleeping body of Frank's guard, turned about on his heel and said, "'Casablanca' sucked."

Which only made John laugh harder.

.o00o.

Henry's first hit with the McAllister faction was naught a week after he first came to New York. He was glad to be back to work, and had insisted that Frank put him on a job, _any job_, with the excuse that he had yet to break a law in the states (besides Portkeying illegally) and therefore wasn't truly fulfilling his monthly illegality quota. Frank had relented easily, telling the lad he was proud of him for having goals, and had sent him on a hit to dispose of a man named Giorgio Alvares. He was a mercenary for the Cordero faction, a Cuban territorial gang that Frank didn't like.

"Their tactics are less than civilized," Frank had explained, "It's the Cuban in them."

Which brought Henry to the situation he was in now. Alvares had breathed his last breath, and standing over him thinking about where exactly he would place the carcass, Henry had heard the sound of footsteps coming from behind him. He didn't move, though his back was turned and he was vulnerable, and listened for the sound to stop. When it did, he rotated his head slowly to see who had interrupted him. It was a man he had never seen before.

Dressed in obscure robes (of a sort) with padded armor like that of a military force, the man's intense eyes bored into Henry from underneath the casual flip of his black hair. There was stubble on his chin, and his lips were slightly stretched in a cold smile. Around his waist, there was a sword in an intricately designed holster, a gun in much the same (Henry hated Glocks) and most surprisingly, a wand.

"Let me introduce myself," the man said, his voice deep and rough, "I'm Special Agent Backus of the United States MCS76."

Henry turned around completely, his gun still lax at his side, and stared.

Backus frowned. "Did you hear me?" he said, an edge of warning in his tone.

"I heard you," said Henry, "Special Agent Backus? _The _Special Agent Backus?" His eyes widened and he scratched the back of his head with the gun, "Of MCS76? Are you _really_?"

"Heard of me, have you?" Backus said, smiling sinisterly.

The expression on Henry's face no doubt told Backus he had missed the mockery, and he scowled at the boy in anger before stepping forward. The gun came up.

"Don't move, okay?" Henry asked absently, "tell me who you are. Without the acronyms."

"Magic Control Sector," Backus explained, watching the pistol with narrowed eyes, "I'm as good as the police here. Sort of like your Aurors over there in England."

"How interesting."

"You're on American soil, kid-" Backus began, but Henry cut him off.

"So _that's _where I am!" he exclaimed, glancing around humorously, "everything starts looking the same after Paris."

Backus glared, and began advancing unwisely. The gun touched his cheek, and he leaned into it without a bit of fear, trying to show that he was not scared and not amused with the boy's jokes. Henry's mouth stretched slowly into a grin.

"You see?" Backus said, "I'm made of sterner stuff than your kind's sorry excuse for magical control. The great thing is," he leaned forward and whispered, "if you shoot me, the law here gives me permission to shoot back, and I'm faster than you."

Henry pulled the trigger.

"_Motherfucker_!"

Backus barely moved out of the way in time, and the bullet had lopped one ear off rather than sink into his skull and subsequently blow off his face. Henry laughed hysterically as the officer rolled over on the ground, clutching his bleeding head and cursing.

"Ha! Oh god," Henry broke down laughing, holding his stomach as it began to cramp. "Not fast enough, Special Agent Backus!" he said, wheezing with his giggles.

"You little fucking _shit_…!"

Henry picked up the shredded flesh, and a little voice in his head said in Elizabethan vernacular, _lend me thy ears! _He dissolved into laughter once more.

"I'm going to fucking _kill you_!" Backus yelled, suddenly on his feet and reaching for him. Henry slid out of the way and took off at a run down the alley, still sniggering, and let Backus chase him. The man seemed to have forgotten that he had the advantage of using his magic, because he followed Henry for at least three blocks before stopping to catch his breath. Henry stopped as well, grinning.

"You done, then?" he asked, entertained, "quite a time we've had of it, Backus, but I really must be going-"

"Come on, Brooks," the agent interrupted, panting and bleeding and altogether looking a mess. "Fight me one on one, right here," he pulled out his sword and his wand, holding them both up high, "Come on, _coward_."

Henry sighed. "Listen," he began, but Backus shouted a spell quickly, and Henry was forced to side-step it. Another came at him with the same speed, and he swatted it away.

Backus started to cast again but Henry silenced him and said, "Listen, will you! Fuck, what is it _with_ cops?"

Backus glared.

"I'm sorry about your ear," Henry said to him, trying not to smile, "It was a good ear."

Backus moved forward, and Henry held up a hand.

"I mean it," he continued, "I'm sorry for it. Look though, I'm not going to cause trouble, we're both going to walk away from this alive, and keep on doing our jobs, right? I mean, even though you really aren't paid enough to deal with me," he gesticulated at Backus, "you _have_ to, and we're both obligated to deal someway or another."

He released the spell on Backus and nodded decisively. "We could always be friends," Henry added with sarcasm. The agent went for him again, and Henry grinned and Apparated.

He emerged behind the man and said, "I look forward to seeing you again."

He disappeared when Backus took a swipe at him with his sword. Henry decided the fun was over and with a pop in front of the agent and a "_ta_!" he was gone.

Agent Backus stood in the middle of the empty street, his head afire with pain and his ear missing somewhere on the grimy streets of the alley. He slammed the trashcan beside him closed with the butt of his sword, and said, "_Shit_!" to no one in particular.

.o00o.

With the murder and disappearance of one of their best hit men, the Cordero faction realized that the infamous Henry Brooks was _truly_ in New York, and working for Frank McAllister. The news spread to the Torres faction, and onto the Van Rued family, who immediately contacted Frank about the new addition to his team. After four days in New York, Henry was a bit of a star with the locals, and it seemed to be all anyone could talk about on the streets and in the business. Frank milked the intimidating reputation of the son of Denny Brooks, and gazed at everyone rather smugly (bar John, who had hit him over the head with _A Tale of Two Cities_, gifted from Henry).

Another, less important person that heard about the boy, was Dex Anibal, a notorious killer from California who Frank had tried to recruit once before. Dex requested a meeting with Frank, which told him that the volatile assassin was prepared to negotiate where he hadn't before. The resulting tussle of Dex being so very obstinate had required Frank getting a new desk, so he was being rather cautious about it.

"The game has changed, McAllister," he was saying, and there was a terrible smile on his face. "You've got a new man. I want to know if it's who they're saying it is," Dex demanded.

"Whom is saying what?"

"Who," John corrected from beside Frank while picking absently at a nail. Frank glared at him and John scowled at Dex, continuing the chain, for no other reason than that he could.

"Cordero, Torres, Van Rued," Dex snapped, "the big guys. They're all suspecting what I am. Killings but not really killings. People disappearing. Has the Brooks touch."

"Disappearing?" John asked, looking alarmed.

"You didn't know old man?" Dex said, grinning at him. "When Brooks was in England and safe from us, there was never a body found. Just people vanishing," he made a sound with his tongue and mimicked popping a cork off of a bottle, "gone."

Frank knew of such a thing, but hadn't confronted Henry about it yet. Sometimes a man's trade was better left unexplained, after all, and he didn't want the boy to be offended if Frank poked around in tense matters such as this.

"Henry Brooks is working for me, Dex," he admitted with a huff, "I was close friends with his father a long time ago."

"The infamous Denny Brooks. He here too?"

"Incarcerated," Frank said, "Two life sentences without parole, for the murder of a police officer."

Dex raised both eyebrows and smiled. "Well now," he said, "that's interesting."

Frank had no desire to introduce Henry to Dex. The man was an apt killer, a good thief and an expert informant, but his tactics were as sadistic as his heart, and Frank wanted the boy to get settled in New York before meeting Anibal (the nicknamed spawn of Satan, in most circles). Not that Dex would scare the boy away, no, Frank rather thought Dex might not survive the encounter if he was rude enough. The problem with keeping the two away from each other was that Dex had connections that Frank needed, and he would only have to hope that they wouldn't run into each other.

Unfortunately, Henry managed to defy every wish he had, and come in at that very moment, covered in what seemed to be soot. "Your guards are pants at everything," the boy said, "I've just had a talk with an informant who tried to run and your man throws bloody coal at him. Coal! Have any of them evolved yet…oh, hello."

Frank wanted to cover his eyes with his hand, but he resisted. Dex, however, rose from his seat, his cruel black eyes on the length of Henry's body, consuming and committing to memory.

"Dex Anibal," he said, and took Henry's filthy hand, "and you are _quite_ a surprise, I must say."

Henry smiled at him. "Am I? How lovely," he commented, taking away his hand so that he could brush some of the dirt off of his clothes. "Forgive my current state," he apologized, "I loathe idiots on a good day."

"He panicked, Henry," Frank defended the guard sourly.

"Oh, I know _that_," the boy said waspishly, still trying to clean himself up, "perhaps you'll let me work with John next time. At least he knows a gun is more effective than cinder soot."

Henry turned back to Dex and looked up at him from beneath his eyelashes. "Frankie propositioning you, then?" he asked.

Before Frank could vehemently deny it, tell Henry to get away from the man or simply kill him, Dex stepped uncomfortably close and sniffed. _Did he just sniff me? _Henry thought, appalled.

"He is. The game has changed with your arrival, you being here means Tyler is dead, doesn't it?" Dex questioned, leaning even closer.

Henry smiled politely and moved back a bit, but did not answer.

"See there, kid?" John said in monotone, his eyes on Dex, "you're famous."

Dex grinned, and inhaled again. "I hadn't heard you were so very beautiful, though," he whispered. Henry blanched.

"Oh, wow," he said, moving away from the creep. "Frank?" he called, "Can I talk to you for a moment?"

Frank rose from his seat, casting a wary eye at Dex as he did. "John?" he said quickly, getting the man's attention, "Show Dex the door, will you?"

"Sure," his friend murmured, rising and heading for the scowling man.

"I'm sure I'll be in contact," Frank said to him congenially, and Dex nodded as if it pained him to do so.

"I can count on it," he responded ominously. They both left, and Frank motioned Henry forward with an impatient gesture.

"I didn't mean for you to send him away on my account," Henry said as he sat, taking the glass of scotch Frank handed to him, "he your newest man, then?"

"_You're _my new man," Frank corrected, and then blinked when he realized how it had sounded. "I've no wish to deal with him, really," he said, trying hard not to look too embarrassed.

"He's a real piece of work, alright," Henry agreed, "he fancies himself."

Frank adjusted in his seat and grimaced. "He fancies you," he corrected, feeling a blush rise to his cheeks.

Henry laughed. "A man like that?" he shook his head, still smiling, and observed Frank carefully over the edge of his glass. "His life is ruled by base pleasures. Murder, lust, maybe greed," he drained his drink and set it down, "It makes him a very stupid killer."

The boy saw the look Frank was giving him, and he merely waved a hand. "You may think I'm a hypocrite," Henry said, "and I used to be quite like Dex Anibal. Certain…things have happened to change my opinion."

"Oh," Frank said curiously, "can I guess what it was?"

Henry dipped his head and his hair fell into his eyes. "You already know. I had to learn the hard way, and I suspect Dex has yet to sit through that particular lesson. Denny…" he stopped and licked his lips, "Denny always tried to warn me."

"Warn you of what?"

"Of becoming just a killer, just a pistol. I think it may be why he took me in," he looked away from Frank's bright, assessing stare. "I think he did it to have a connection to a world that doesn't involve murder."

Frank cleared his throat. "But he taught you _how _to murder," he thought he should point out.

Henry whipped his head around to stare at him. "He didn't," he said quietly, "I already knew how. He taught me that it was alright to care," he exhaled through his nose, "about other things, I mean."

Frank wouldn't pretend to understand, and the lad knew he wouldn't and seemed glad of it. Henry blushed fetchingly, no doubt embarrassed that he had confided something potentially private to Frank, and tried a small smile. It didn't last long.

"I know about Denny," Henry said, shifting in his seat.

"I…" Frank paused, unsure of what to say, "I'm sorry I didn't-"

"Don't worry about it," he waved away the apology, "I know why you kept it from me. You want me and I still need you, getting Denny out was never plausible anyway."

"Well sure it was," Frank objected ignoring the bit about 'wanting him', "Listen, Henry, Denny will be fine in prison, and what's two life sentences? He'll charm the socks off those guards. Fuck, I wouldn't be surprised if he was out in a months time."

Henry smirked at him, refilling his glass and sighing. "You're trying to comfort me," he said as though he appreciated it, "thank you."

"I want to make a promise," he said stiffly, "but I can't promise I can get Denny out."

"You don't have to," Henry retorted with a scoff, "I'll work for you Frank, because I enjoy it, and I need something to do while…" he stopped himself, and then coughed. "While things settle," he finished.

Frank nodded, and then seemed hesitant. "I need Dex for his contacts," he admitted, "I dislike the awful bastard, but he _knows _everybody."

John returned then and gave them a glance that appeared to say '_are you excluding me?_'. "Whom knows everybody?" he asked.

"_Who_," Henry corrected, grinning. John flipped him the bird and sat down.

"We're talking about Dex," Frank supplied, crossing his hands over his waist.

"He intends to get Henry out of the deal, I hope you know, boss," John informed them.

"What's the deal?" Henry asked before Frank could start yelling.

"Dex is our connection to the Van Rued family. He used to work for Oscar Van Rued, and they remain on good terms even though Dex went freelance," John explained, and then motioned for Frank to continue, who did so grudgingly.

"Oscar and I don't see eye to eye on many things, but his importing and exporting business is the safest in the world. Dex was supposed to slip in some good words about our company, but I didn't offer enough to satisfy him."

"You didn't offer enough," Henry repeated inattentively, staring off.

"Now," John said, "he's looking to ask for you in return for his help with Van Rued."

"An alliance for an alliance," Henry tilted his head to the side and turned his eyes back on Frank. "Well, let's do it," he said with a smile.

"P-_pardon_?"

"What the fuck?" John said, much less gracefully.

"Let him have me," Henry told them, crossing his legs and licking his lips. "Getting laid is getting laid, and he's not ugly," he justified with a shrug.

"You can't be serious," Frank found his voice, sitting forward with and feeling his gut tighten. "Selling yourself for a measly tie to a measly business…I won't allow it," he affirmed.

"You just said Van Rued was the best bet for shipping," the boy argued, "that doesn't sound measly to me, mate."

Frank observed Henry crossly. There was something he was missing, something about Henry Brooks and his ambitions that spoke of a game, a terrible game that most likely had to do with more than Frank could ever fathom. When he looked into those fierce green eyes, he imagined Henry had been given some sort of gift no lesser mortals could lay claim to. That the boy was powerful in ways that didn't involve strength of mind, of heart, or of body. It scared him because Henry's eyes spoke of not only a game with Titans for chess pieces, but they cried out success with every confident stare. The boy would play to win.

"In return," Henry was saying, "I'd like to be the one to establish an alliance with Van Rued."

"You want to be an envoy?" John said before his boss could, and he dropped the cigarette he was rolling to the ground on accident and cursed.

"I want to be an envoy," the lad inclined his head in deference, "please."

"If you're sure…."

"What the fuck, McAllister?" John protested, "Dex is a sadistic loon! He'll tear the boy to pieces," he turned to Henry, "you hear me? He'll hurt you and get off on it!"

Henry took the rolled cigarette out of John's hands and sat back, lighting it with Frank's Zippo.

"Unless you get off on it as well," McKay said, looking at his cigarette forlornly before taking out his pack again, "strange fucks," he muttered.

"Anibal isn't half as powerful as he thinks he is," Henry finally said, "and he can't hurt like I can."

Frank chomped on his bottom lip. The boy was bloodthirsty, that was it, and he felt his stomach clench again. An unprecedented bloodthirsty, perhaps not, and nowhere near as cruel as Dex. No, the lad's greatest weapon was that brain of his, and Dex wouldn't stand a chance against it. He realized what Henry wanted with the man, very suddenly as he watched the boy slowly blow smoke out of his mouth. Henry wanted to _play _with Dex.

"If you're sure you can handle yourself," Frank heard himself say, and the lad stared at him before popping up from his seat with a smile.

"Superb!"

John was still griping, but Frank's attention was on Henry. The strange, terrible, horrifying boy that now worked for him. He wanted to ask a question, abruptly, and he blurted it out without even attempting to restrain himself.

"The disappearing thing," he said loudly, "how do you do it?"

They all fell silent, even John who was now staring at them inquisitively, and Henry turned about to look at them. That special smile that said that Frank was amusing, that he could have asked, _"why is the sky blue?_" and he would have sounded less like a little boy, emerged on his handsome young face. Henry wiggled his fingers at them happily.

"Magic."


	14. Chapter Thirteen

A/n: Sorry I'm so late with this chapter, it was a real struggle to get it out. This chapter is short short short...but for a reason. I had planned for this one to successfully wrap up the past, and it did. This chap is NOT a filler...something very important is said here. I look forward to your predictions. I hope you all enjoy. Leave a review? I'm sick and I need some cheering up. Oh, and by the way, _thank you _for all the reviews last week!

A Few Responses: blueeyes: another new reviewer! *glomps* hi! How's it going? I'd best feed you, huh? And give you something to drink. Now you just sound like a pet I keep around. Thanks for reviewing, and hopefully I can keep you hungry for more. Not in a malicious way…because withholding food isn't very nice. Hitler did that.

Ncgal: shitty review? Shitty review? Shitty review? You're fucking with me. I love anything you say in a review. You could insult my mother and call me ugly and I'd still love it. But really, what are you doing reading my stupid story when you could be revising? Wait, I think I got that turned around. You _should_ be reading my stupid story. Academics are overrated anyways (says the crazy writer with stress issues). Love you!

Amazonia: it hurts me to say this (I'm sorry mom, and God, and kitty cat) but I love my dearest Amazonia more than anything in the entire world. Even more than Zeppelin. Less than three (1), 4 sideways 8.

Warnings for this chapter: violence, language, mentions of slash (and kinks)

* * *

Pistol Whipped

Chapter Thirteen

The man was hesitating rather stupidly, and Henry was getting frustrated.

"What does he want for the information?" Henry asked again, his mobile close to his ear and his hands clenched so tightly his knuckles were pale.

"The guns, he says," he answered tentatively, as if Henry could kill him through their means of conversation.

"Out of commission," Henry snapped. He had taken the weapons with him when he had left, and they weren't coming out again. Not Yet. "Give me something more," he demanded.

The informant speaking to him was an old guard of Tyler's, who happened to know where Augustus Zabini was located. The search for the man that had set Denny up was harder than Henry had thought. He cloaked himself as though he had the same sort of power Henry did, and if it weren't for his dealings with weaponry and bosses, he would speculate that Zabini was a wizard. Experience told him that most wizards were not in the business of Muggle crime, but the white hot need for vengeance suggested he look into any lead presented, no matter how unlikely.

"Malcolm won't accept anything else."

"How about I kill you both and get the information from someone else?"

Henry was never one for bluntness, but the sort of man that was this informant didn't seem to take anything but barefaced truth seriously. He smiled into the receiver.

"You couldn't find us," the man choked, showing courage he didn't have.

Henry laughed. "If you'd like to think so, who am I to take the mickey out of you, mate?"

To his absolute hilarity, the phone switched over and suddenly Malcolm himself was on the other line. "We don't know where Augustus is, Henry," he said quickly.

"Leading me on were you?" he loaded his pistol as he talked.

"No, no," Malcolm objected with panic and fear, "we know who his contacts are, where he _used _to live, but he disappeared about a week ago."

"And yet you said you knew where he was," Henry pointed out, "so either it's you that has been lying to me, or it's the guard."

"You've known the man since you were nine, Henry," he said waspishly, "he watched you fucking grow up."

Henry switched his weight from one foot to the other, and looked out at the view from the top floor of McAllister's house. "This is where you ask me if I'm really that cold. This is where I tell you, that I don't fucking care about the informant. This is where I come after you for lying to me, and you hang up and you try to run. But what you don't know, is that this is where I know exactly where you are, and that this is where you realize you've made a mistake. Quite possibly, your last," he paused and lit a cigarette, and Malcolm remained silent, "do you have anything else to say to me?"

"Henry, please…."

He hung up. While he could easily find Malcolm and kill him, Henry wasn't ready to test his luck and off a man who knew a little too much just to be a regular free agent. Augustus, who had made the deal with Tyler and Horst to catch Denny, was another matter entirely. Henry quite verily hated the man, wanted him dead yes, but not without a bit of well-earned pain first. He added Malcolm and the informant to the list silently, sitting down on the provided sofa in his new room to think. There was so much happening these days, and Henry found himself in need of the downtime away from the bustle of New York and the back breaking pace his new boss set for his work.

Frank McAllister was turning out to be a successful undertaking. He hadn't met Oscar Van Rued yet, but rather thought Frank was likely the best boss in New York. He owned the city, and by default, so did Henry. Unlike most men of their profession, Frank was ridiculously fair, committed to his personal doctrines and rather compassionate. At the same time, he was dangerous and well-connected and merciless. Henry liked him, liked him quite a lot, and made a note in his head to thank Denny for his brilliant planning once they got him out of nick.

On the other end of the spectrum, lay the interesting subject of Dex Anibal. The man was a funny sort of situation to Henry. He so obviously wanted him, and while Henry put immense value in a romp without ties, his plans for Dex were considerably more sinister. Dex was only a bit over twenty-three, and he was young and in need of a knock down to his rightful status, for his pedestal was self-designated and obnoxious. Henry took it upon himself to be the one to help Dex get his footing, partially because the man was a good killer but mostly because Henry thought someone that pompous could only change or die. He didn't much like people like Dex, but it was to Henry's benefit that the young man wanted him so much.

There was very little that wasn't to Henry's benefit these days. He leaned forward and placed the pistol on the table, a sleek looking Desert Eagle Frank had gifted to him for his 'initiation' of sorts. He glanced at it considerately for a while, and thought back to the last few months with McAllister. Hit after hit had blurred them all together, but Henry remembered two of them with the utmost clarity.

The first time he had met an agent of the MCS76, and the last time he had dealt with Backus trying to thwart a kill remained on his mind. The man was relentless, and Henry was very interested in these so-called Hit Wizards. They were talented, surely, but rather pigheaded and reckless. What fascinated him most about the sector, was that they were a government department. A _Muggle _department that hired Wizards to keep control of the magic users in the United States. Which meant that the higher ups in one of the most unpredictable countries in the world knew that magic existed. How they had become privy to that information was lost on Henry, but he would find out.

He thought also of the never-ending debate his mind had taken to battling out at the oddest of times. Should he tell Frank that Wizards were very, terrifyingly real? Or would the power of knowing turn him black with foolishness and surety? Experience told Henry to keep his gob shut on the matter, but it would all come out eventually, for his secret was one too big to hide. Especially with those among them that knew exactly what Henry was capable of.

The pistol glistened in the afternoon sun, and Henry closed his eyes. The imprint of the gun was bright in his mind, and he reached out to it with his magic. He tied apart of him to the core, straight down to the bullet, and let his magic flow. He opened his eyes, and the gun appeared completely normal. He felt the ammunition shudder with his energy, and he drew the part of him he had lent back into himself through the connection. He could not see the power there, but he could feel it. Only how much he would revel in that power was his constant battle for equilibrium. Awareness of such a thing made only leaders stronger, and the strong men Gods. He kept his head, and only hoped that others would follow suit.

.o00o.

Donnelly grimaced at the stale coffee and refused the mug Johnson handed to him. His partner shrugged inelegantly and downed the lot of it, supposing the extra cream and sugar would make it mildly palatable. He was wrong, so wrong in fact that the coffee barely tickled his taste buds before he was spitting it back into the cup. Donnelly laughed.

"Oh, shut up," said Johnson, turning to glare at him. "It's completely fucked up that I'm the only one that buys the coffee, and when I go on strike you bastards buy nasty ass taster's choice."

"That's a gourmet breakfast brew," Marks added his two cents, "only we haven't cleaned the filter in a few days."

Johnson made a noise that was partly a gag and somewhat a yowl of disgust.

"Alright, alright," Donnelly called for order, "today we're going to try and stop a shipment from Manhattan to South Carolina, McAllister is going to be moving pretty fast with this one, so we need to be faster."

"He's carrying five hundred pounds of heroin west, in these unmarked Penske trucks," Marks added, showing a picture of the vehicles. "We want to get him when he exchanges carriers in this warehouse on 75th. Gang Enforcement will be backing us up."

Looking out at the police officers that were supposed to be their squadron, as well as Gang Enforcement, Donnelly wanted to sigh and call it quits right there. When he turned to look at his partner, Johnson had a pained look on his face that was both sheepish and apologetic.

"Did you recruit the officers, Agent Johnson?" he asked, somewhat sourly.

"Oh, he's calling me Agent Johnson," his partner said, nudging Marks conspiratorially, "It gets me so hot when he does that."

"If you didn't, then I don't see how it's your fault that we have a bunch of inexperienced officers along with us," he went on as if he hadn't heard.

"We will have to be more careful, that's all. Get the job done.

"Who we have to watch out for," he continued to the team, "is Dex Anibal and John McKay, they'll be heading the handover," Donnelly reminded them rather unnecessarily. Johnson nodded a couple times with a put-upon rolling of his eyes.

"What about Brooks?" Marks asked, "you got my report on him?"

"Yes," Donnelly admitted, though he didn't seem worried. "He shouldn't be there, and we're assigned to McAllister, remember?"

"He's part of their faction now, Donny," said Johnson, "we do a whole job or no job at all."

Donnelly scoffed but nodded reluctantly. "I hate dealing with bosses, they get out of everything, i.e. Al Capone."

"Here we go again," Marks said tiredly, "Capone man, Capone."

Johnson laughed and swung an arm around his partner's shoulder. "We've got it handled, Donny, have faith."

For the years following that hot summer day, Donnelly would wonder whether having faith would have spared Agent Michael Johnson, one of the only good men left in the world. He hadn't seen who had shot his partner, directly in the forehead without a chance of intervention, but he new where the blame lay and he would have his revenge. Donnelly would kill Frank McAllister, the law be _damned_.

.o00o.

Severus Snape was in a conundrum of sorts. He had been given an impossible task by the Dark Lord-to find Potter where everyone else had failed. In the last two months, however, he had been summoned at least seven times with nary a word about the boy. It was unlikely the man had forgotten the assignment bestowed upon Severus, but it rather seemed like he had, and if Severus were an optimistic man he would perhaps be grateful for his luck, even though he did not understand it. Without his cheer, he had only wary suspicion, and Severus knew that something had happened.

He was unsure when exactly the Dark Lord had decided to leave the Potter situation alone, perhaps with his new infatuation with destroying Dumbledore (by way of a petulant school boy, of all things) and the obsession with Harry Potter had been put on the backburner in favor of actions that provided immediate results. It was too providential to have happened this way, Severus speculated, for the Dark Lord had fickle wants and the threat of the lost boy had remained on his mind up until the failed episode at the Department of Mysteries. He did not tell Dumbledore about the new circumstances, instead focusing all of his power on foiling Malfoy's juvenile plans to kill one of the most powerful wizards in the world.

Severus was frustrated. He hated the unpredictability of his stance with the Dark Lord ever since his unfortunate return. At first it had been absolute animosity towards Severus, including the ever present punishment by pain. He was reduced to a potions slave now, once again, with no mention of the task he had been granted. It made him drink rather heavily on the nights when he had finished grading papers, or when he wasn't likely to be summoned and had the entire night to get rip-roaring drunk.

He couldn't even bring himself to be happy about the Defense Against the Dark Arts position he had gotten at the end of the school year. He couldn't even be happy that the curse would only allow him the position for such a short time, and that he would very soon be far away form the ignorant cretins masked as healthy young students. Nothing whatsoever made Severus in the least happy with his circumstances.

He downed a bottle of Fire Whiskey in nothing short of an hour, and hated the dread that pooled in his stomach along with the alcohol. He spent much of the darkness hating his anxiety, his fear that this careful game of balance they were all playing would eventually tip and become something catastrophic, but most of all he hated the Potter boy. Hated him for his own situation that was no doubt the same as one lowly potions master, who was in between two sides of a dangerous war, and who had had decidedly too much to drink. He would raise his glass to that, at least.

.o00o.

Behind a rather thin statue of a regal looking Knight on the seventh floor, Ron watched as Draco Malfoy disappeared into the Room of Requirement. Feeling right smug about having assumed the Slytherin was up to something and turning out to be correct, Ron drew away from his hiding place eagerly.

What was Malfoy doing in that room? Something dastardly, no doubt, and dangerous for everyone in the school and quite possibly the Wizarding world. Ron just knew his classmate was a Death Eater, and not just because of his suspect actions as of late. Lucius Malfoy, Draco's Death Eater father, would have trained the Slytherin from birth to be an ideal follower of the Dark Lord.

He couldn't wait to tell Hermione about what he had seen, which was viable proof that Malfoy was up to no good. He couldn't understand why she would defend the Malfoy family, what with the whole diary incident in second year. If Dumbledore hadn't figured out the possession and found the Chamber of Secrets, Ron didn't want to imagine what would have happened to his sister (or Hogwarts, for that matter).

Then again, Hermione didn't understand a lot of what Ron did. She had a problem with him dating Lavender, and though less of the 'won-won' thing wouldn't go amiss, Ron had no idea what her problem really was. She didn't approve of him following Malfoy about, and thought his accusations false and prejudiced. Hermione was big on prejudice. She also disagreed with something extremely important to Ron and by default important to all of the Weasleys. She thought Chris was a felon and a bad influence. A felon of all things! That particular grievance made Ron very disagreeable towards Hermione at times.

Ron hadn't been the only one to raise a hullabaloo over that comment, but he had no doubt been the most offended. Chris had, after all, saved them from the debacle that was the Department, that it seemed like Hermione had forgotten. Ron told her all about Chris, a poor street ragamuffin that had visited them on Christmas when he was little, who was astoundingly amusing and shy and a person Ron was proud to call his best mate. Hermione had focused more on the fact he had been carrying a Muggle weapon at one time, had come to their house in search of help from multiple bullet wounds, and had gone to Muggle prison for some unknown crime.

As judgmental as Hermione usually was, Ron thought her going after Chris of all people was entirely uncalled for. She even brought up that with all Ron's talk about Dark Wizards, how did he know Chris wasn't one as well? How did he know Chris wasn't the abandoned son of a Dark pureblood family, or quite possibly a Death Eater himself? Ron had argued that Death Eaters wouldn't care about their best mate's life, or even befriend a "Blood Traitor" in the first place. But Hermione's terrible speculations had planted a seed of doubt in Ron's head.

He admitted, to himself at least, that he knew very little about Chris. Ron knew his last name (Brooks) but then even that was his adoptive father's namesake. Who knew if Chris wasn't a Malfoy, a Parkinson, or Merlin forbid…a Goyle. Ron had adamantly denied that one to Hermione, who had suggested the worst possible affiliation, and had pointed out to her, "Did you _see _Chris? He's _not _a Goyle."

She had turned up her lip in that way that suggested Ron was a bit of an idiot. "I suppose not," she conceded begrudgingly, "but you've just got done telling me that all Pureblood Wizards and Witches are connected by blood, so he could very well be part Goyle somewhere inside of him."

"Ugh," Ron gagged, "we don't know if he's Pureblood, and don't say stuff like that while I'm eating."

She sighed. "You're always eating," she said, and went back to her porridge.

Ron had still floundered about in panicked suspicion until he had decided to write to his father about his worries. Arthur Weasley had always been there for him, listening when Ron needed an ear, and he liked to think that out of all of his children, Ron was most liked. The letter he received in response had been a triumph for Ron, and he had waved it in front of Hermione's face with a bright grin.

_On no uncertain terms should you think Chrissie a bad person. He saved my life, you remember, and yours as well. There are more families in the world than just the ones we know, keep that in mind, and also that the greatest Dark Wizards aren't all from Slytherin, and just so, all Slytherins aren't going to become Dark Wizards. Chrissie never had a problem with blood purity, if he did he wouldn't have stayed in contact with us. Though Chrissie isn't your average Wizard, don't think badly of him, son. Some secrets are best left untold. _

Hermione, of course, had used his father's words to try and prove him wrong about Malfoy, rather than admit her folly in the mad assumptions about Chris. Now, though, she would have to acknowledge that she had lost yet another battle. Draco Malfoy had been up to something, oh yes, something that had to do with the Room of Requirement, and Ron would find out what it was.

.o00o.

Henry wasn't sure he liked being bound all that much, but Dex seemed to get off on it, so who was he to judge? Domination had its good points, certainly, but Henry much preferred the sort that didn't involve whips and chains and…cock rings. He usually found his own sort of power during sexual acts with the derisive and ultimately vulnerability provided by his position. Dex hadn't wanted to feel inferior at any time during their fucking, but had in fact, made himself a weakness simply by tying Henry up. Compliance, Henry found, was a power in itself.

Dex had rolled his eyes before they'd started, obligated to offer Henry a safe word, which Henry was very much inclined to take advantage of (especially when Dex was in the middle of something particularly enjoyable). They couldn't, after all, ruin Frank's best worker. Henry had chosen quite a few words before Dex was able to respond to them (and who got hot from Harrods, equestrians, and dry cleaning?) and had a hell of a time making Dex think he was in complete control during the entire process. Most times, he left the rundown apartment Dex called home with giggles threatening to tumble out of his mouth.

When the man fucked him, after the discomfort of trying to forgey who was fucking him had worn off, Henry found he quite enjoyed the sex. He didn't always reach fulfillment, but it didn't matter much to Henry as long as Dex was happy enough. The power play was certainly exciting, and though Henry would never employ the practice with any of his other lovers to come, he thought he could handle Dex and his needs. The restraints however, were always tight, and when Dex had tugged his body a bit too hard, they had left bright red rings around his wrists. Frank had see them and had been livid, and since then Dex had lowered the amount of bondage and pain, though not by any impressive degree.

Henry wasn't one to lay back and think of England, but sucking in his pride had never been more fun. The deal was also swell considering the advantages of letting Dex use him. One, seeing the man completely flustered with desire (that loose look on his face as he committed the act) made pleasure run swift through his blood in what he understood was a sort of power high. Two, obviously, was for the Van Rued alliance, to which Henry would be able to meet the weapons master of New York and see for himself how he compared to the otherwise perfect Frank McAllister.

When he did manage to meet Oscar Van Rued for the first time, as an envoy to McAllister, the man had shown promise. He was cordial, even to a liaison from a separate rival faction, and absurdly impressed with Frank's choice in delegation. Henry wasn't an unintelligent young man, and having had experience with those that desire him, the lust in the man's eyes was incontestable. Likewise, he thought Oscar quite a classic handsome, and upon discussion with the head of the Van Rued family, Henry was quite please Oscar seemed to have a brain to match that pretty face.

"I can see why Frank McAllister would choose such a person for this job," Oscar was saying, his thick accent confident and smooth as he looked at the boy up and down.

Henry smiled charmingly. "Surely you don't think Frank that shallow?" he asked teasingly.

"I know little of McAllister, but what I _have_ heard, however…."

Judging this as a good time to expand upon Frank's golden attributes, and thus allowing for a tentative civility between the two, before Henry could speak he was interrupted by what seemed to be Oscar's wife.

"Ah, Heinrich," Oscar said, and the new moniker made Henry smile tightly, "this is my wife, Jana."

"A pleasure," Henry responded, grasping her hand and kissing it. Immediately, he felt the power beneath her fingertips, and he glanced at the rubies and sapphires around her neck. He smirked, "I'm sure," and let her go.

She appeared, all at once, intimidated and furious with him, and snapped her hand back as if he had burned her with his touch.

"You must be McAllister's man," she said slowly, "I have heard quite a lot about you."

What Jana Van Rued really meant was, "your magic tells me more, and it frightens me," because her eyes were dark with slight shock and indecision, as if a cat had suddenly come in between the path of the mouse to her home.

Henry briefly thought humorously, that he had never had much luck with the wives of bosses, and he smiled at her gently (but not too gently) to show that he meant no harm to her at the moment.

"All good things, I hope," he said.

Oscar, feeling left out, said to his wife, "what have you heard, Jana? I am not informed of Mr. Brooks, but you are?"

"You haven't been paying attention, husband," Jana retorted stiffly, "Mr. Brooks works as a mercenary for McAllister." She turned her eyes back to Henry and glared, "Do you not?" she asked for confirmation.

Her question had sounded as rude as Henry thought it did, because Oscar looked embarrassed. "I do, my lady," he said, and though it didn't sound mocking, he knew Jana knew it was, "Frank is very persuasive."

She had an expression on her face that told him she didn't believe any of what he was saying, and with a wary glare at him, she excused herself.

"Forgive my wife," Oscar apologized with a worried frown, "she is not good at these parties. Not very social, you see."

"Understandable," Henry waved him off, "I must confess that I would not be here if Frank hadn't insisted. I don't much like parties either."

Oscar bit the inside of his mouth pensively and offered Henry a flute full of Champagne to mimic his own that he swirled around distractedly. Oscar finally inhaled deeply, and he said, "McAllister is demanding of his people, yes?"

"Not at all," Henry answered, sipping his bubbling drink, "he's very lenient, very kind, but unmerciful at the same time. I quite admire him, but don't tell him I told you that. I'll never hear the end of it."

Van Rued laughed, a pleasantly deep chuckle, and Henry couldn't help but grin back. "He must be a good man to have you as a friend," Oscar complimented, and then blushed a bit afterward.

"Of course, I have chosen wisely with Frank," he said, observing that face closely before draining his flute.

"This news surprises me," the man said after a long silence, in which they had peacefully listened to the chatter of the guests and the soft music. "Heinrich, much of what I have heard about McAllister suggests disregard for enemies and allies alike."

"Dishonest information," Henry said sagely, "Perhaps when you meet him you will see for yourself."

Oscar finished his own drink and smiled. "Perhaps I will," he said, "you may have convinced me."

Two days later Frank received a call from Van Rued's man, and a meeting was officially scheduled between the two. Triumphant, Frank and Henry toasted their accomplishment well into the night, happy that the ties between the two biggest bosses in New York were finally growing stronger.

The feeling didn't last long, as it was apt to do when consorting with the likes of Dex Anibal, the wrecker of all things glad. They were supposed to be scouting out Jesus Cordero who had a rather tense relationship with Jose Torres, but as of late, had taken to speaking with the man more than he ever had before, and civilly. Henry had a hunch that the newly-formed alliance was the reason the two men were meeting, but Dex seemed to think Frank was biting off more than he could chew with messing with the rival factions. Henry spent much of the time trying to ignore Dex and his prattling mixed with the annoying groping Dex thought was appropriate in any and all circumstances.

"They're obviously threatened by my involvement with McAllister," Dex was babbling, leaning back lazily in the driver's seat of Frank's car. "Frank just doesn't know when to back off," he said.

Henry watched as Jesus walked out of the bar and got into his Cadillac, but not before giving the street a suspicious glare.

"If they have an alliance Frank is going to need Van Rued on his side," he said to Dex absently, watching out of the window as Jose followed shortly after.

"They're going to try and pull a hit on me," Dex told him loudly, and Henry looked at him, "and I'll be fucking ready."

"Frank won't allow it," Henry said, dropping his cigarette out of the car and motioning for Dex to drive.

"It's my ass on the line," Dex said, "I'm not going to be dead."

_Certainly not yet, _Henry thought maliciously, _whether that is a fortunate thing not entirely sure. _

They gave Frank their menial information straight away, and Henry lagged in the office until Dex stormed out in a huff.

"Rumor has it," Henry began, "that Cordero means to take out John and I."

Frank's eyes widened in slight panic. "Not Dex, I suppose?" he asked.

"Is Dex an affiliate of this business or a guest?" Henry asked without hesitation.

McAllister was not contemptuous that Henry would think himself a more valuable commodity than Dex, and neither was the boy wrong. He was rather pleased the lad recognized Frank's obvious fondness for him, and hadn't exploited it in anyway, as Dex would have done.

"If they come after you, I assume you can take care of yourself, yes?" he questioned, though he knew the answer already.

"I'm sure I can, Frankie," Henry said with a small smile, "but what if we were to strike first?"

Frank stared at him. "That would start a war," he said as if Henry didn't know, "are you mad?"

"I'm thinking of the future, Frankie," Henry said, tilting his head to the side. "Such competition should be eliminated before it becomes a threat too big to destroy. You have a war now, and save all those that would have died if you had waited for the other side to realize our intentions. It's common sense." He licked his lips, "I would have thought you had more ambition in that head of yours."

Power, Henry knew, was always a temptress ready to consume.

"Yes, well," Frank said, and then sighed, "you're suggesting we have firefights in the streets."

Henry rose and moved to Frank's desk, sitting in front of him calmly with a smile. "Have I chosen you wisely, McAllister?" he asked in nearly a whisper. He reached out to the man's face, letting the power within him well up until it was fit to burst, and let it consume the man before him with unknown caresses.

"W-what?" Frank breathed.

"Patrick Tyler knew of my powers, he knew of the impossibilities at my fingertips," he said softly, and let the fire float over his open palm, directly in front of the shocked Frank. "He knew of my strength and went mad from it. From knowing. Have I chosen you wisely? Or am I at fault with another man again?"

Frank's bright eyes held awe, inspiration, and fear, flashing like a broken screen in their deepest blue. Henry gazed at him, waiting for his answer.

"What are you?"

Henry got up and poured a glass of scotch, twisting it to-and-fro in his hands. "Scotch is a drink of powerful men, I've noticed," he said idly, taking a sip, "Patrick quite liked his scotch… too much I think."

He turned around again and grinned, his arm outstretched with a glass for Frank, who took it dazedly. Henry sat down once more, and said cheerfully, "Perhaps I should tell you a bit about the world before I hand it to you."

.o00o.

He had a king and a queen. The board was set up to allow a straight for anyone carrying lower cards, but he was depending on the high card. The man in front of him, the only one who hadn't folded, didn't look as though he had any sort of straight, and he raised two Lucky Strike's to see if he would call. With raised eyebrows, the other inmate threw in four more smokes and scowled when his bet was met. Denny grinned across the table at him, and flipped his hand over.

The high card had won.

"Good game, mate," Denny complimented, and the inmate merely grunted before the cards were given out again. Denny slid his stash of cigarettes towards his chest, aware that he would never smoke them but happy to have 'currency' for the next round of poker. Already, three men were bankrupt and standing around the table to see if Denny would dispose of anyone else. He glanced at his cards and grimaced at the two and the seven before folding, just in time for a guard to traipse up to the bars around the rec. room and shout for him.

"Brooks! You got mail."

"I'm out," he said, putting his cards on the table and getting up. The other players looked quite cheerful now that Denny was leaving.

He shoved the smokes into his pants and turned his back to the bars, sticking his hands through the spaces. The guard cuffed him and buzzed open the cell, dragging Denny towards the mail room. Denny rolled his eyes as the guard un-cuffed him and shoved him inside, and he waved a lazy hand at the inmate working the mail. A postcard was shoved into his face.

It was a picture of the Empire State Building, and in big bright letters it said _New York_, and below it the words _wish you were here_. Denny laughed lightly and turned it over, seeing no return address and no other greeting but one message in a familiar slanted cursive.

_God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. _

He read it again and again, until his brain caught up with what he was feeling. Relief, happiness, love, and anger. He was furious with his circumstances, remorseful that he had left a mess in England too big for his son to clean up. Thankful that Henry had made it to New York, that he hadn't been caught by those that wished to kill them both. But Denny didn't feel as glad as he thought he would have upon getting his first bit of post from Henry. He knew what the message meant, and perhaps that was why he was morose. Maybe he just missed his son, who Denny knew could take care of himself but was still prone to getting into unneeded trouble.

Sighing, he took a Lucky out of his pants and put it to his mouth, taking the offered match from the mail room duty guard. The smoke went straight to his lungs and they seized, and Denny coughed heavily. The inmate chortled at his expense, and even the guards (who sadly lacked any personality at all) chuckled a bit as Denny struggled to breathe. When it stopped, he stubbed the cigarette out and put the postcard in his shirt. _The things I cannot change_, Denny repeated in his head with a sardonic laugh, _I understand, Hen, I understand. _

.o00o.

Underneath the night that remained lit from the storm clouds brewing overhead, Henry stalked his prey from atop the roof of Jesus Cordero's neighbor. The rifle was steady in his hands, and his body thrummed with anticipation for the hit he knew would get his blood pumping with pleasure. He didn't aim for the open window, his target wouldn't be as foolish as to stand where he could be seen. He had no need to aim at all really, for the bullet had been charmed to find the man despite anything obstructing its path. He was waiting for the group of Jesus Cordero's men to be gathered, however, close to the window where Henry was quite visible from atop his perch.

That time came about, and Henry took the shot.

Screams ensued from within the home, and he smiled as he imagined the scent of blood, wishing it was strong enough that he could smell it from afar. He stared in the direction of Juan Cordero, standing over his dead father and looking towards the spot where the bullet had come so quickly. He let the man's glare of vengeance and hatred wash over him. Eye to eye, the war had begun, and Henry tipped his head as if to issue a challenge to Juan Cordero, and waited for the show to begin.


	15. Chapter Fourteen

A/n: and…we're back. I've got one more chapter planned and then I can get to my absolute favorite part of this story. Enjoy this chapter, it was lovely to type up and if I remember correctly, a lot of fun to write. Thanks again to all of the wonderful reviewers…seriously, I'm getting stupendous people responding to the story. It definitely doesn't make this project a chore, and every week I look forward to hearing from you guys! Drop me a review if you can spare the time and let me know how I'm doing! I can't help it, _thank you _again and again for all those that reviewed last time! An overwhelming response from new and old reviewers. I adore you all.

A Response: Ncgal: ah, it's not late! It's perfectly on time. Don't feel guilty, you should feel guilty! Just knowing you love reading the story and are able to take the time to review makes me all warm and tingly inside. Unfortunately, we don't get to see much Oscar/Harry, because well…I kill him. Fortunately, Dex is murdered in the first part of this chapter, so there's your requested ass kicking. Unfortunately, Denny will not be freed soon. Henry wants him to stay in prison (where it's safe) for a reason. By soon do you mean in a few months? Then yes, soon. By plot standards? Not soon. You are very welcome for the update! Thank you for my review, Ncgal, you always make me smile.

Amazonia, I love you.

Warnings for this chapter: gore, violence, bad language, CD, murder (lots), racial slurs, plot twists, and Jedi mind tricks.

* * *

Pistol Whipped

Chapter Fourteen

Present Day, 1996

"_And besides," Dex continued, his eyes flashing, "McAllister is being taken over as we speak, and your infidelity now means very little." _

_Henry clenched his teeth. _

"_I had the pleasure," Jana interrupted, and her focus stones began to glow. "Of speaking with Cordero and Torres these past months. A very formidable team, but in need of some alternative help, you understand." _

_Jana moved toward him, her jewelry brightly flashing in anticipation of her power. "It is all over now, Heinrich." _

"_You could always surrender," Dex said with a grin. "I've always wanted a toy." _

_Dex was suddenly on his other side, unsheathing a beautifully crafted long sword. He felt the magic wrap around Jana's body, ready to strike, the earthly scent of her power manifesting in the air. Dex swung his sword as Jana let loose a blast of light from her hands, and Henry sprung into action. _

.o00o.

The lull in the battle must have been a godsend for Jana, as much if not more than it was for Dex, who panted harshly while holding a hand to his torso where a Cutting Hex had severed the skin there, leaving a bloody, gory mess. His heart pounded in his ears, the adrenaline making him supremely aware of the blood moving through his body, and the silence that now overtook them caused a sharp ringing to echo in his head. Jana had a terrible gash in her left arm, where veritable liquid fire had slithered up her fingers and blackened her entire side. Her wide eyes told him it was likely fatal, and Dex felt his mind go blank at the prospect of losing this fight.

Henry Brooks stood before them, a patiently mild-mannered look in his eyes, and as opposed to his enemies he remained unharmed and as picture-perfect as always. Dex _fucking hated him. _

"They won't let you live, you know," he said through gritted teeth, his jaw clenched so tightly he felt a tooth crack. "They've decided, _the guild_," he panted, "they've decided."

Henry frowned delicately, and adjusted his stance. "You've a guild?" he asked in that quietly disbelieving way of his.

He side-stepped a curse Jana threw at him and gave her look that said blatantly, _the adults are talking, Jana, don't be rude. _

"There are _thousands_ of us. Of us killers. We get to decide who's more trouble than they're worth, and we dispose of them. They _are_ the law for us, Henry, and they mean to get rid of you, and that stupid father of yours."

"_What_ about Denny?" Henry asked, looking strained now.

"The cop," Dex laughed, and then when his humor seemed to be getting to Henry, he laughed harder. "The cop," he repeated, "and Tyler, they were really only a small part of it, but they had a part all the same."

"You shouldn't be telling him this," Jana snapped at Dex, holding her arm close to her side.

"I'll tell him whatever _the fuck _I want!" he yelled at her, "Jesus, I'm going to fucking kill the _shit head_ so whatever I say now doesn't really matter, _does it_?"

Henry raised an eyebrow at Jana, and she breathed in through her nostrils and swallowed audibly.

"The Mercenaries Guild have decided the Brooks Duo…_the Brooks Duo_," Dex laughed shook his head. "Not much of anything now, are you? Ha, anyway, they've decided you two need to go, and they won't stop until you're gone. Both of you. Gone and off to rot in hell where you belong."

Henry leaned forward, off of the wall (the only bit still standing of the second floor) and watched as Dex gasped with the pain of his gut wound before grinning at him madly.

"They've decided," he said again, and Henry was getting more and more pissed every time he said it. "There's nowhere to run, kid."

Henry moved towards him, and Dex brought up his sword. "No," he said softly, watching Dex raise an eyebrow at being contradicted, "I'm afraid you've got it all wrong."

Jana chose to speak then; the curse (something that seemed to wilt the skin around her bones and turn it black) was now climbing towards her throat like vines against a building. "They know what you are," she whispered.

"So, this was your doing as well?" Henry asked, unsurprised.

"My husband didn't know the business as well as I do," she explained waspishly, "he didn't know anything."

That, Henry could believe, so he nodded in acceptance and waved a hand for the conversation to move on. "Yes, well, there's still a fault in your reasoning, I'm sorry to say," he sighed and glared at them both stonily, "you fuckers have underestimated me."

"And I bet you think _you_ can destroy them!" Dex exclaimed, and his own statement seemed to be nigh on ridiculous and tickled the man silly for a moment. "There are thousands of us, against one little street kid with a pistol? With some power? You're crazy, man," Dex showed his teeth and chuckled, "bat shit crazy."

"As lovely Jana Van Rued seems to be aware," Henry continued patiently, "I'm more than a little street kid with a pistol."

"Throw all the flattery you want at me, Heinrich," she retorted angrily, her panting sounding a bit like someone being choked, "I _will_ have your head."

Henry's jaw twitched and he turned to her with a scowl. "_Shut up_," he snapped at her, bemused, "I don't need to compliment you," he pointed his pistol at her, "_you're_ fucking dying."

"What does she know that I don't?" Dex questioned feverishly, "What do you know?" he asked her this time, and through her pain she met Dex's glare.

"I had supposed," she confessed shortly, moving her glazed eyes to Henry, "I thought you might be him."

"Who the fuck is _him_?"

Granting Dex a short chastising look, Henry crossed his arms and nodded towards Jana. "Give me a reaction, Jana," Henry demanded of her, "give me an idea of what I'll face when they realize the truth."

She laughed. "You think I'm not impressed," she said, hunching over from the pain now, and the dead skin began to peel. "Others won't be. Others will want you dead."

Dex threw his hands up and barked, "This is starting to _really _piss me off!" He pointed his sword at Henry. "Can we get back to the subject of fucking killing you, Brooks?"

Henry stared at him. "I'm afraid my name isn't Henry Brooks," he said, feeling the magic coil inside of him, bursting with awareness, with the change that came from accepting blood.

It rose up like a tyrant of a wave, threatening the watchers and waiters, drowning Henry in the purest form of power. He breathed it in and it felt like hot smoke rolling down his throat, only to amalgamate in his stomach like a chilled pool of strength.

"My name is Harry Potter," he told them, and the wave crashed into him and he felt the fire lick his flesh, "and you both have really, really _fucked up_."

Dex struck out then, a mass of shadow and metal, and Henry blinded the man with the purest white light-sinking through his pores as if the organ were only a sieve. When the light receded, Dex blinked and felt hot wetness sliding down his cheeks.

At first he thought that he might be crying, as perhaps a trick of Henry's to distract him, but when he touched his face and pulled his hand away, he saw blood instead collecting on his fingers. He looked up and the walls were covered in it, and Jana, who had not been prepared for Dex's volley (that had proved fruitless despite his strength), was cut from her blackened neck right down to her torso. The inside of her body spilled out like a grotesque unwrapped present, and as Dex watched, more of her lifeblood slipped out like sludge along with bits of what used to be her internal organs. He grimaced and shook his head, before looking around for Brooks.

There was a small, almost silent sound behind him, but Dex did not turn around. He closed his eyes and sighed, and suddenly the most unimaginable pain spread through his body, running along the pathways of his limbs, and tearing it apart like unwinding thread. He looked down at his hands, at what he could see, and before his eyes the tips of his fingers crumbled into ash and broke apart, catching wind he couldn't feel-floating above him as soft as snow. He screamed.

Henry Brooks was standing over him, his eyes cold and so very green it hurt. The pain reached its crescendo and began to descend into nothingness, a feeling that Dex knew so well on others. Never himself.

Never did he think he would understand just how immense dying could be, for it was a force he had seen many times but had not experienced. Now that he was going to die, the awareness of the event was more like euphoria than anything else.

He hoped that one day, Henry Brooks or Harry Potter or whoever this man was that stood over him with a stare as inert as ice, felt this leaving of the soul and was struck by wonder. He was being terminated in every sense of the word, in the most agonizing way possible, and all Dex could think was, _so _this_ is what it's like. _

"It is a pity," Henry was saying, his voice muffled in Dex's slowing mind, "that I can't take my time with this. I've wanted you gone ever since I met you, and only when you took me did I want to let it hurt. Life could have been different for you, Dex."

He gasped as his chest began to pull apart, as the ash lay like a blanket before him; all that he saw that was left of himself.

"You are a fool, Dex Anibal," Henry told him rather blankly, "a dead fool."

Yet, Henry had no idea how dying could really be. He took the lives of others and did not comprehend death, and for that Dex was _not _the only fool. He laughed through the last pieces of his throat, feeling it tear away and make his words only whispers.

"You'll lose," he said with a smile, "you'll lose it all."

It was the last thing he said before the darkness of his passing washed over him. Henry realized that he was panting, not from exertion but the chilling last words of the man he had killed. He gathered himself, vowing to think about it later (or not at all) and waved a hand over the decimated hall. Carefully, he guided the fire to the bodies and watched as the luxurious curtains went up in flames. He felt the spell on Frank buzz through his mind in distress, and he exhaled tiredly before Apparating away. He would not let his last opportunity die by another's hands. He needed every advantage he could get.

And Dex was wrong, because Henry didn't have anything to lose.

.o00o.

Donnelly wasn't sure what to do. Beside him, frozen to the seat, was his partner Monroe, and within his sights was the door, blocked by the imposing Hit Wizard who seemed to have tired of their conversation. His own body remained motionless, the will to move strong but inhibited by some strange force. He breathed in and out deeply, trying in vain to calm himself while he watched with frightened eyes as the man got up and raised his long brown stick.

_What an unconventional way to die_, Donnelly thought to himself wryly. Inside, he was assaulted by panicked giggles, hysterical amusement that built up in his chest at his circumstances. He wondered if everyone thought imminent death was a bit funny.

Suddenly, the door to the conference room opened, and another man similarly dressed to Agent Backus came through the door.

"Aaron," he said cautiously, "Brooks killed Van Rued and Anibal."

If Donnelly could have moved at all, he would have shot upward in alarm. How did _this _happen?

"Shit," Backus cursed, and turned toward his fellow agent, "Is he gone already?"

Nervously, the other Hit Wizard nodded. "But he's going to McAllister, Cordero and Torres jumped the gun and attacked. Agent Maxim is with them," he stopped and looked at his watch, "right now."

"Good," Backus said, a slow smile starting to emerge on his face. He turned to Donnelly and Monroe and said, "You two wait here," as if they had the choice of leaving. Donnelly wanted to punch him in the face. "If I can get Brooks it'll be a good day," Backus said to his partner while he practically flounced towards him.

He left through the door, and when it closed with a _snap!_ a spark of light emitted from the knob and spread about the room connecting the corners. Obviously, Backus had done some kind of Voodoo to trap them inside, and Donnelly huffed inwardly and rolled his eyes. What the fuck did a force field matter when they couldn't _move_? He made sideways eye contact with Monroe, who moved her stare quickly to her hand. He followed her gaze and her index finger twitched slightly before relaxing once more.

Donnelly was suddenly glad he was immobile by some sort of random witchery, because he might have kissed Alicia Monroe. The spell was wearing off!

.o00o.

"We don't have the means to take on a hundred of them, let alone _two_ hundred of them. You go out there and you'll get killed!" Frank yelled at the top of his voice.

Henry scowled. "How many have retreated to the first floor?" he asked quickly.

"Eighty. Out of one-fifty. We're going to die if we don't leave!"

"We're going to die anyway, Frankie," he retorted, clasping the man on the back, "bring your men in here. All but the ones holding the stairs."

"Are you crazy?"

"Just do it, yeah?"

"You _are_ fucking _crazy_!"

The boy disappeared in that annoyingly noiseless way of his, and Frank called in the seventy men that weren't raining bullets on the invaders at the top of the stairwell. They clambered into the room and out into the hall, waiting for Frank to no doubt call a retreat. He held a hand up to them and shook his head, going with the movement and covering his eyes as steady gunfire exploded in the background.

Without warning, Henry popped back into existence in Frank's study, covered in what looked to be dust, and holding seven small toy-like boxes about an inch wide on either side. Henry dropped them to the floor and they expanded as they fell, becoming the large wooden crates they actually were. The men in the room stepped back, wide stares on the magical boxes, and Henry gestured to them impatiently.

"Inside these crates," he addressed them while he pried them open, "are weapons that will ensure you living through this ridiculous battle. Grab one and I'll show you how to work them."

Frank sidled up beside Henry as they all clamored to get one out of the boxes. They were rather frenzied about it, driven by the sounds of fighting, or most likely the promise of a new gun. For men like them a good weapon was enough to abandon any fear of fate they once had before.

"The fabled guns," Frank breathed, "are you really-?"

"There's a time for everything, Frankie," Henry explained, and checked his watch. "I _do _hope your men have got big _cajones_," he said with a sigh.

Frank grimaced. "Considering I'm being attacked by a bunch of illegal immigrants, I'd really appreciate if their lingo was taboo from here on out."

Henry laughed, and popped away once more.

When he came back, he had a struggling man held by the arm, his eyes frantic and what looked to be a table leg swinging about in his hand. Henry grabbed it off of him impatiently and threw it in one corner.

"Caleb," he shouted to the man in front of the troop, "shoot him with the CON. Anywhere."

Henry didn't bother stepping back as the man thrashed about in vain, and didn't take his hand off of him until the bullet hit home. A strangled yell, a sightless stare, and ash fell to the ground where one of Torres's men once stood. Varying degrees of shock, horror, and pleasure were visible on the faces of Frank's trained-to-kill men, and Frank himself took a step backward from the remnants.

"What you have in your hands is a magical firearm. It renders all bullets useless that aren't from the CON or the APOC. It's silent and swift. There's no reloading, you've only to cock once, and don't force it. Let it do what it needs to do. Stay at the top of the stairs and pick them off. When it looks like the numbers are dwindling, push to the front doors and check the grounds. You're good to go."

They didn't move.

Henry scoffed. "Are you mutt and Jeff? I've just given you weapons of mass destruction," he said with a wave of his arm, "you Yanks love that shite. _Go_!"

They practically flew out of the room, happy (no doubt) that they now had a much better chance at living through the firefight. Henry watched them go and shook his head before turning back to Frank.

"Stay here," Henry said wearily, "I'll take care of the wizard."

Frank sat back down heavily and blinked. "You've done more for me than I can ever repay," he started slowly; "those guns are…they're…fuck if I know, Henry."

He ran a hand through his hair. "I thought you wanted them out of commission, keep them as a trump card or something," he said, shrugging, "I didn't know what they would be capable of…w-what _you _could be capable of."

Henry moved away from the door and placed a hand on his desk. "I wanted them put away until I found the right hands to put them in," he said at length, "and now that I have, well…_honestly_ Frankie?" he paused and smiled. "You've more then paid off any debt you think you might owe me. Just by not going over the fucking rainbow."

Frank raised both of his eyebrows and then inclined his head to show he understood. Henry grinned and pressed a modified gun into his hand. "Relax," he said cheerfully, and jutted a thumb at the bar, "have a drink."

Without saying anything else reassuring, the boy was gone and Frank looked at the gun in his hand reverently. He slapped it down on his desk and took Henry's advice, and lo and behold, the scotch tasted like success.

.o00o.

Agent Maxim was someone Henry had never fought before. He was obviously a Hit Wizard, but the man had so far avoided a fight with Henry in the past. He was formidable with his wand, powerful and natural with his long sword, and quick and deadly with light-footed grace. There was no impetuosity about this man, but then again, Henry was never reckless during a duel either. They circled each other amidst the sound of Cordero and Torres's men being systematically obliterated by the guns, and when they began to duel they moved fiercely for close to a half-an-hour before Agent Maxim stopped.

"Are you getting tired?" the man asked, his short clipped sentences betraying his rising annoyance.

"No," Henry told him with a minute smile, "not really."

Maxim shot a spell that looked like a Blood Boiling Curse towards Henry's right arm, which was smoothly side-stepped as the sword came down to graze his left shoulder. Both missed, and Henry shot back a series of flame based spells that wrapped around the Hit Wizard, circumventing toxic smoke that crawled into his lungs lethally. Maxim rolled under the trap and came up gasping for air, and let loose a _Reducto_ that caught the fence around the McAllister house and blew it apart.

Henry conjured a shield against the falling bricks and slid three spells underneath Maxim's defenses. One was a Lacing Hex, that constricted the fire close once more, followed by a nifty little curse that raised Maxim up by his ankle, and the last a ring of fire that enveloped the man and shook him like a bone in a dog's mouth. The Hit Wizard managed to counter them and he dropped to the merciless ground where his legs broke from underneath him, snapping loudly. Henry made a face at the sound and shook his head.

"I'm-" Maxim coughed, and blood coated his lips, "I'm not going to win this, am I?"

"No," Henry said, mockingly sad, "you're definitely going to die."

Maxim raised himself to his knees, sword-less and wand-less and completely vulnerable. He panted and his lungs made a wheezing, scratching sound that Henry didn't envy. The man took a moment to look around at the grounds, covered in ash as they were and Cordero and Torres's men retreating in the wake of the wreckage.

"Well, shit," he said, and abruptly attempted to Apparate away. Like a beetle on a string, the tie to Henry brought him back with a sharp tug to the ground and held him there.

"Did you _really_ think that would work?"

Grumpily, Maxim adjusted his position and spit out blood. "Not really, no," he croaked sardonically.

"Your mates are on their way," Henry informed him, "only two to try and take me down. What do you think of that?"

"I think you're an arrogant little fuck, is what I think," he said, using what little magic he had left, unfocused and raw, to shoot a ball of light from his hand towards Henry. He dodged it easily and bit his lip.

"I'm not really," Henry confessed sheepishly, "I'm actually quite pleasant once you get to know me…"

"Ha! I'm sure you are!"

"…but you Hit Wizards," he continued as if Maxim hadn't said anything, "don't bother to get to know me." He let out a long sigh and said dejectedly, "It's hurtful, you know."

"Cut the crap," the agent snapped at him, "If you're going to kill me, just go ahead and do it."

"Don't you want to wait for your reinforcements?" Henry asked, surprised.

"_Fuck them_!" Maxim yelled, dragging his broken legs forward to try and reach his sword, "fuck them and fuck you!"

Henry raised his pistol. "Well, if you're sure," he said with a shrug, "thought I'd help you out…."

"You son of a bi…" his words ended when the bullet charged straight through his heart and left a skeleton of ash, but for only a moment, before the wind took the haunting shape away. Henry gave the ground where Maxim had previously laid a dirty look, sniffing at the insult. _My mother was not a bi-_

"So, I see the guns are alive again," a voice remarked from behind him, interrupting the thought.

"Absolutely," he responded without turning, "it makes for a better day that you're here Agent Backus."

Henry turned around to face them and nodded politely at the other Hit Wizard. "Oh, and nice to see you too, Agent Coleman. How the fuck are you lot?"

"I think," Backus said smoothly, raising his wand, "that we'll put an end to this _now_."

Henry gave his best Cheshire cat grin. "Two birds with one stone for me, don't you think?" he lifted his pistol and tilted his head at them, his eyes bright. "Come on, Backus, you owe me the other ear."

.o00o.

"Ah, yes," Dumbledore said as he tried to look lost and confused, "but, oh, _where_ are you from again?"

The man (quite close to fifty judging by his grey) rolled his eyes in parody of his age and said, "MCS76," for the third time.

"Indeed, most astonishing, indeed," he stroked his beard lightly and tried to look unthreatening. "America has created a magical police for wizards to protect _Muggles_, how _interesting_. We have Aurors where I'm from," Dumbledore prattled on, "but we have little to no contact with Muggles, let alone _work with_ them."

"The Muggles we work with are government agents, Mr. Dumbledore," said the man, now very irritated, "_not_ civilians."

"And you've no Ministry here?" he asked in wonder.

"No," the agent snapped, "we work for the President of the Unites States of America."

"Most curious," Dumbledore just about gasped.

The Hit Wizard made to walk away. "As I explained," Dumbledore said quickly, before he could leave, "the British Ministry of Magic has men looking for this Henry Brooks. We've been searching for quite a while, you know. I don't suppose you could tell me his whereabouts?"

"No, I couldn't," the agent said with a deep sigh and crossed his arms, knowing the crackpot old man wouldn't give up. "There's a fight at McAllister's place, he'll probably be there if they haven't retreated yet," he admitted reluctantly.

"McAllister?"

"Franklin McAllister," he retorted intolerantly, as if it explained everything.

"Do you happen to have the Apparation Coordinates for this McAllister's place?" Dumbledore asked hopefully, "If it's not too much trouble, of course, young man."

He finished with a dash of a grandfatherly smile, and briefly, the agent looked to the sky for guidance and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like 'not too much trouble my ass', before finally telling Dumbledore the location of the house.

"You can't Apparate in if that's what you're thinking," he warned as an afterthought, "and Brooks will probably be dead by the time you get there anyway, what with the firefight. Our men might have just taken him out," he shrugged nonchalantly, "British protocol be damned."

Dumbledore felt a momentary flash of panic. "We need him alive for questioning!" he said sternly. He must have appeared quite angry because the Hit Wizard went red in the face and glared something awful.

"Listen, mister," the agent started, pointing a finger in his face, "why don't you leave this to the big boys, eh? You Brits couldn't stop him over there in fucking Whoville, so we're going to get him-dead or alive. The United States Government doesn't give a _shit_ about questioning terrorists."

'Terrorist?' Dumbledore mouthed to the Hit Wizard's retreating back. What on earth had Harry Potter been _up to? _He observed the hustle and bustle of the crime scene and tried not to feel too concerned or disappointed.

It seemed that this was not a job for a wizened old man on the verge of death. Dumbledore knew that much as he looked again at the Hit Wizard, who was nearly sprinting away from the mad old man.

No, he wouldn't be able to help Harry with this 'firefight' as the man had called it because of the wards, and he was not stupid enough to join a battle as a stranger with no ties to either side. He would have to go back to his office and watch the instrument, to make sure the light didn't go out and tell him of Harry Potter's death. If the boy survived, and Dumbledore had a hunch that he would, Albus would return to see that the lad make his way back to England, _where he belonged_.

He reviewed the circumstances in which he had found Harry, and really found it _quite_ fascinating. Dumbledore thought of the boy's alias with intrigued wonder, and guessed that it was possibly a name worth looking into.

.o00o.

"You do understand that this is just a matter of business," he said to the boy brazenly. "It's nothing personal."

Henry shot a plume of fire at him in response.

"You have, after all, been running amuck showing your powers to everyone and their mom," Backus dodged and put his hands up with a laugh. "I mean, you've got to admit, you've kind of brought this on yourself."

"Brought what on myself exactly?" Henry asked, pausing his own lazy spell work. "The frustration of listening to your ridiculous taunts? The all's fair attitude I've got in a duel, that won't let me completely destroy you because of my own misguided morals? I _have _fucked myself up, haven't I?"

"We've got two good FBI agents at the bureau right now," Backus revealed with a faux melancholy, "waiting to die because of what they saw. What _you_ exposed them too. Reckless." He shook his head and admonished, "reckless and cruel, Brooks."

Henry remained silent.

With bloodthirsty eyes, Agent Backus gestured to the battle field. "And not only that! Your family threatened," he said, and pointed at Henry, "your life forfeited."

Weary of speaking with such a man, Henry laughed shortly and without humor and connected his magic to Backus's body. He started to pull it apart.

"My life was never in any danger," he said calmly as the Hit Wizard's eyes widened impossibly, and he fell to his knees. He released a shuttering breath, and the skin around his lips began to pull away. Henry didn't want him to talk anymore.

"Neither were the lives of my family."

The skin on Backus's body melted quickly, and Henry stopped the process as it reached his head. He moved closer to Backus, the light still in his eyes almost impossibly, and brought out his switchblade. He moved the hair out of the man's face, exposing the hole that had once been his ear, and turned to look at the other, touching him rather gently.

Henry cut the remaining bit off with a quick slice and held the flesh in his hand. He smiled as Backus's eyes glazed over in death, as the spell completed its course of burning the skin from his body, and raised the ear up for inspection.

"Thanks for playing," he said to the gruesome vestiges of Agent Backus, and kicked him off of his knees, where he hit the ground and broke into bits of something that looked as though it had never used to be living.

Henry snapped his head around when he heard the tell-tale sound of Apparation, and once he realized what had happened, he began to laugh. Agent Coleman had fled the scene with only a pile of urine left behind to mark his presence there. Henry shook his head and took a look at the grounds of the McAllister manor.

Frank's men had won, the ashes of the Cordero and Torres faction spread out over the yard. The men raised their guns in the air and hollered their victory to the sky. Saluting whatever God they believed in, thanking the guns-thanking Henry.

He grinned lightly and made his way up to Frank's study, where he found the man completely sloshed and nursing the entire decanter with lidded eyes.

"I should have told you _one_ drink, Frankie," Henry quipped, and laughed at the man's swaying head. "That's enough for you, I think," he said, and grabbed the bottle to put it aside, placing the ear on the table at the same time.

"There's an ear on my desk," Frank thought it prudent to point out, and downed the rest of a glass he had abandoned a long while ago in interest of the full bottle.

"Right, mate," Henry clasped him on the back companionably. "You sober up," he commanded, grabbing the ear again, "I'll go deliver this and set our beloved Hit Wizards on their ear," he stopped and chuckled. "Get it? Set on their ear?"

Frank blinked.

Henry shrugged with a small smile and let it go. "I may also, _quite_ possibly, in all _probability_, save some feds," Henry continued, "and when I come back we'll address your triumphant men and I'll let you fuck me. How's that?"

"I don't want to fuck you!" Frank hollered, and then hiccupped. "Okay, maybe I do."

Laughing, Henry took the decanter and made for the door. "Drink some milk and put your head under the faucet, old boy," he told him.

Frank was still talking to himself as Henry Apparated away, and his voice echoed in Henry's head as he walked out of the alley beside the police department and up the steps. It was busy inside, with complaints and other issues, and Henry strolled up to the receptionist and smiled.

"I'm looking for Agent Smith."

Her mouth dropped open in surprise. It was likely she had never seen someone like him come into the precinct and ask for a Hit Wizard. She gathered herself when he stared at her pointedly.

"Agent Smith isn't here due to the weather," she said primly, but watched him from the corner of her eye. He knew how to respond next, thanks to Maxim's mind that opened for him like a blossoming rose. Though not as pretty, perhaps.

Henry smiled wider. "The rain let up an hour ago," he responded calmly.

She sagged in relief. "He's in the room down the hall to your right. AB4."

Henry took the visitors pass and nodded his thanks. He scanned the card and pushed the heavy door open, before making his way down the hall where he could already see Special Agent Smith outside speaking with a gangly young man who Henry had no doubt was a rookie. They both turned at the sound of his footsteps and gaped at him.

"Hello," he greeted them both pleasantly, "Agent Smith, yes?"

They both took out their wands.

"Ah, ah, ah," Henry chastised, shaking a finger at them, "Don't be so hasty, okay? I'm here to relay something, oh…" he gestured to them both curiously, "have you two met Agent Backus?"

The Hit Wizard that looked too young to be much more than a lowly ranking official, glanced at his superior quickly and followed his example of staying silent.

"Judging by your silence," Henry continued, "I'd say you both have. This one," he pointed to the youngest, and reached out to touch the side of his head. "He seems a little _wet behind the ears_," he smirked and pulled his hand away, giving the rookie Backus's remains.

The agent squealed as he saw the ear in his hand, dropped it to the floor, and checked the side of his head to see if his limb was missing. Henry laughed like a mad man.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he said to Agent Smith, who had shot a Stunner at him that Henry had easily dodged. "You won't believe how many jokes you can get from a fucking ear."

"You had better start talking, Brooks," Agent Smith said, finally, his eyes switching from Henry's face to all that remained of Agent Backus.

"I believe you have two friends of mine in custody," he informed them casually, pointing his thumb at the closed door. "Release them, will you?"

Agent Smith narrowed his stare, but didn't move. "I don't think you know what you've done, son. If that's what's left of my friend, of Agent Backus, you have no idea what you've done."

Henry smiled. "I think I do. I've just killed two of MCS76's men. Therefore bringing hell down on my person for this _terrible_ crime against the American government."

Smith was wound so tight that Henry speculated the man hadn't taken a shit in close to a decade. He leaned forward and licked his lips, still dreadfully amused.

"I feel inclined," Henry said softly, "to tell you that you blokes all gussied up in your battle robes, all self-important because you're the cronies of one of the world's most powerful men-"

"The President of the United States," Smith interrupted, raising his wand higher. "If you know how important he is then why kill his men, Brooks? Digging your own grave so soon?"

Henry straightened up again and tipped his chin up. "Of the United States," he laughed, "Ha, well, because you didn't know, I'm going to tell you a little underground secret, if you will." He cleared his throat and said, "I just so happen to be the President of everything else. Things are about to change, agent, and your president is advised to change along with them."

Smith took a startled breath. "Are you threatening-?"

"No," Henry said, waving a hand. "I might be threatening _you_ though."

He gave Smith the ear of his fellow wizard. "A gift, for you and your men," he said with a short grin.

Henry opened the door to the warded room and turned back to the two agents. "Give Coleman my regards, and tell him he owes me a duel," he said by way of goodbye, and tugged on their connections and threw them into Apparation. They were tugged across the country, most likely to some random beach in California, and he wished them well as he emerged into the conference room.

Donnelly and Monroe were both pacing about the limited length of space they were provided, but stopped when they saw him. Without his gun, Donnelly floundered to find some sort of weapon and ended up raising his chair above his head to appear menacing. Monroe grabbed onto her chair as well but stopped when Henry coughed and held up a hand.

"Hold it there, will you?" Henry said, shutting the door. "I must be a bad person if I'm always greeted with such hostility." He frowned at the chair still raised aloft and muttered, "though I've never been threatened with furniture before."

"Brooks," Donnelly scowled and dropped the plastic chair to the ground, trying not to look embarrassed. "Stay where you are," he commanded.

Henry waved his hands and sat down. "I'm staying, I'm staying," he said, and took out a cigarette and lit it. He inhaled deeply.

"Where's Backus?" Donnelly asked.

"Dead," Henry told him without hesitance, pulling a bit of tobacco off of his tongue. "Did him a favor and killed him, he was up to his ear in issues…ha!" He slapped his thigh and chuckled, "There's another one!"

Donnelly grabbed up the chair again and _threw _it at Henry, who stopped it in midair and levitated it down. Monroe squeaked.

"What-how-fuck…?" Donnelly looked at the chair and back to Henry, who raised and eyebrow and took a drag. "Was that a Jedi trick?"

Henry moved the chair back over to the FBI agent and gestured to it. "No, it wasn't. Have a seat."

Monroe did so without argument, but Donnelly said crossly, "you're going to tell me what-"

"_Sit. Down," _Henry cut him off impatiently, irritated now.

The fed sat.

"Don't mourn Backus," he began without a prologue. "I'm thinking he was about to kill you before he got the call that I was defending McAllister from invasion."

"He was," Monroe confirmed quickly, and gave Donnelly's glare a shrug. She turned back to Henry and asked warily, "did you _really_ kill him?"

"Of course. Hit Wizards are easy to kill. They have an apparent weakness that gets them every time."

"What's that?" Monroe questioned curiously.

Henry grinned at her. "Arrogance. Too much talk, too much habit, not enough creativity." He tapped the side of his head. "And I'm full of creativity," he explained lightly.

"Talk about calling the kettle black," Donnelly grumbled under his breath, but it was loud enough that Henry heard. The FBI Agent ignored the boy's glare and said, forcefully, "You mean to kill us now, right?" His voice rose to a yell. "Kill us because we don't have what you have…that _magic _thing."

Henry raised an eyebrow. "No," he retorted with a small frown, "I don't mean to kill you."

"Alter our minds then? Like you did to those people at the diner?" Donnelly's eyes were both accusing and frightened, and Henry felt sad seeing it.

"No, Agent Donnelly. In fact, I would rather work with you."

Donnelly stiffened in his seat and pursed his lips before exploding. "I'd rather put you and your associates in jail!" he shouted. "_No_, you know what? You and all your fucking kind can go to hell! Fuck no am I working with _you_!"

"I won't stay in jail, and my associates are well-protected," Henry told him placidly, "and I really don't think you're a big enough man to send criminals, personally at least, to hell." He stubbed out his smoke. "Besides, what is there left for you to do if we're all gone, eh? Torres and Cordero are finished. Van Rued is dead. This war is over."

Donnelly didn't dare to hope, probably thought the boy was lying, and he glared at Henry closely as sweat pooled at his brow. "And McAllister?" he asked breathlessly.

"_I _work for McAllister. He's naturally, very much alive and probably still triumphantly pissed."

"Then I've _still_ got a job," Donnelly said to him harshly, his lip curling. "That man killed my partner, he's killed countless. He's going down, Brooks. I don't give a flying fuck what Voodoo you can pull off, because I'm going to get him."

Henry crossed his legs and sighed. "Calm down, will you?" he said tiredly, running a hand over his face, "you're giving me a headache with your idiotic claptrap."

Donnelly mocked not having heard his words and scowled. "Excuse me?" he said waspishly, "care to repeat that?"

"Claptrap," Henry told him again, adopting his lofty Southern accent, "Claptrap, noun, to go on about haughty nonsense."

"That's enough," Monroe said, standing between them just in time to stop Donnelly from doing something stupid. "Please," she said to her partner, "he saved our lives, one way or another."

She turned to Henry and gave him the same scolding glare and he nodded in assent.

"Van Rued is gone," he began again. "Cordero and Torres are gone. The Hit Wizards won't be back any time soon. I have McAllister, one if not the most important crime lord in the nation in my pocket, and you want to catch him and put him in jail. It just won't happen, Donnelly."

"We can't well, _work _with you. You're a criminal," Monroe said at the same time that Donnelly shouted, "I already fucking told you no! I'm not working with you!"

Henry waited until they were silent before he shook his head slowly. "You haven't a choice," he said softly. "The world is changing rather fast. Perhaps I should put it in perspective for you."

He got up and when the agents seemed panicked, he lowered them back down with his hands. Henry was more serious than he had been all day when he started to explain things to them.

"Wizards are superior to Muggles," he said, "Muggles will eventually fall to Wizards. I am superior to most Wizards, Wizards and Muggles will fall to me. Luckily, I want both to continue as they were, but at a new pace, and with _different_ intentions."

"Don't tell me, don't tell me," Donnelly interrupted, "_You_ think you're some kind of God or something," he laughed, and threw up his arms. "Give me a fucking break, kid," he chuckled hysterically.

"As of now, in this city at least," Henry went on, tilting his head, "I am God. If my plans go satisfactorily, I will no longer be confined to just New York, nor to just the undergrounds of England. This _will_ happen, no matter what you believe or how hard you try to stop it, and you can either be the reaper or the reaped. This is the only choice you _do_ have, mate."

"Why us?" Monroe asked, her hands twisting in her blouse nervously. "Why would you even save us?"

Henry turned his bright eyes upon her, and she fidgeted under that stare.

"Because I need someone able to look after Frank, and possibly make sure he's pardoned for certain things," he extrapolated.

"You want me to protect my enemy? You're mad, ha, you're absolutely fucking crazy," Donnelly told him. "What makes you think I won't go to everyone important and tell them your grandiose plans, Brooks?" he mocked.

Henry lit another smoke and cracked his neck. "Grandiose," he said, nodding, "good word." He sighed out a cloud of smoke and made an impatient sound in the back of his throat. "I make no secret of my plans. I've no need to, so you can tell whoever you want. I count on it. Fear will make half of who you tell come to me anyway."

Monroe put a hand on Donnelly's arm when he began to speak rather furiously. "Can we think about it?" she asked softly.

Henry exhaled. "Of course. But you'll need protection before then. Would you mind very much if I put a spell on you?" he requested politely.

Donnelly's face turned red, but Monroe squeezed him hard enough to bruise and he said nothing. "No," she responded, casting a serious look at her partner, "we don't mind."

Besides an odd tingling along her skin, Monroe didn't feel anything hazardous hit her when Brooks waved a hand down her and Donnelly's body. Henry finished and made for the door.

"Don't take too long," he said with his back turned. "If you need me, just yell. Oh, and Donnelly…" he faced them again, and charily, the agent stared back at him. "You're not a weak man; you're a largely capable one. Revenge shouldn't be the only thing on your mind, not when I'm offering you more."

He left them in the conference room, silent as always and not even a small breeze as evidence of his leaving. Monroe led the pensive Donnelly to the door, and they breathed in a sigh of relief once they finally got out of that room.

Outside, it felt as though nothing had happened in the hours they had been confined and waiting to die. Donnelly took a breath of fresh air and couldn't help but wonder at Henry's words. He couldn't help but wonder what it meant for himself, and frighteningly enough-what it meant for _everyone_.


	16. Chapter Fifteen

A/n: Hello all. After this chapter you'll likely know where I'm going with this story for the next fifteen installments. I really love this part of the story, because we have two running plots and a whole lot of character development. I know this ending is a bit of a cliffhanger, but won't you be happy for chapter sixteen, then? Enjoy, and thanks so much for the reviews last chapter. So many! And by god, we're almost at the two hundred mark! Thanks so much!

A Few Responses: Amazonia: How many licks? One, ah two, ah thrrree. Three. He cheated. The world may never know (?). Ncgal: Ahh, you didn't like my ear slashing bits? But you did like that Dex got pwned so beautifully, so we're square. Will he be heading back to Hogwarts soon? Yep, the chapter after this one, actually, will be all Hogwarts. And the ones after that as well. Come to think of it, I think I see a blond on the horizon (that sounds like an offensive joke). As for the 'burning peeps from the inside out bit' that was just a new trick he thought up after he gained his magical signature back (I sound ridiculous), and was just a little nudge nudge to suggest that Harry/Henry may be more kickass from now on than usual. Possible? Yes. Also, Harry/Henry is not getting too cocky at all. You'll see in this chapter, because Frank'll break it down for us. I love ya, Ncgal, you know I do. Oh, and P.S. It's a trap!

Dedication: To Amazonia for helping me out during my time zone freak out on Tuesday. I think that was me at my most ridiculous. Honestly, the crap you have to put up with. You deserve an award. Less than fucking three (option 1) 4 sideways 8. Also to EvilDime for looking this over for me! Love ya, per usual!

NOTE: **Johnny-on-the-spot**, EPIC WIN with your penname.

Warnings for this chapter: slash, underage sex, and a cliffhanger.

* * *

Pistol Whipped

Chapter Fifteen

With a glass of bourbon in his nervous hands, Agent Donnelly sat in his 'after work' chair. It was worn by many years of collapsing into it much like a rag doll, and tentatively, as if it were illegal to do so, he began to think about the events of the day. Monroe had gone home shortly after their conversation with Brooks, thankfully quiet due to both the shock and the fear they had so abruptly felt, and with only a small glance at her partner she had fled the scene. That tiny look told him everything nevertheless, that she wasn't sure what to think and obviously felt as though she had been hit repeatedly with too much chaos all at once. She certainly looked worse for wear, and Donnelly suspected he appeared much the same.

The alcohol scorched his throat until it settled in his stomach as a frothy weight. He laughed into his glass, fogging it up, and watched the news on the television flickering in front of him without really listening.

_Revenge shouldn't be the only thing on your mind, not when I'm offering you more. _

"No shit," he said around a piece of ice, and refilled his glass with more force than intended. How could he think about revenge when his entire world, his carefully sculpted reality, had just imploded so spectacularly? And what the boy was offering him…what _was_ the boy offering him? Donnelly pulled the lever on his chair to put his feet up and thought upon it analytically. He had understood, at the time, the speech he had been given at the department. But how _much_ did he understand it?

At first, Donnelly was sure this was simply a plea for change from another self-righteous idealist. Okay, so Donnelly was a cynic and proud of it, but he knew that even Monroe (who thought the best of everyone, unfortunately) had been skeptical at what Henry Brooks actually meant with his soapbox preaching. He turned his drink around in his hands distractedly and decided to split his options into two. If Brooks was really bullshitting, then he didn't need to be too concerned with the 'offer'. If Brooks was speaking sincerely, then Donnelly would have to be cautious. He would have to make a decision.

Yet, how did he know what was the truth?

Donnelly was a government agent. His duty was to uphold the law and protect civilians from the evils of the world. Over time, he had lost his will to change the wreckage that was human morality and had seen too much to truly think a metamorphosis was possible. Most times, in order to survive, Donnelly was prepared for the worst circumstances. He thought the pits of everyone, and though it caused acute paranoia, he was never disappointed in any outcome. Sometimes he was even surprised and happy with what had happened, but those moments were too rare to commit to a doctrine. Most times, in order to live through a day in New York, Donnelly lived by a code of dos and don'ts. He never, ever, relied on instinct. Johnson had thought his instinct more accurate than his head, and it had killed him.

Now, when he had little to go on but one teen's word, Donnelly was rethinking the merit of intuition. For amidst his obviously dubious resolve, he had a gut feeling that Henry Brooks was telling the truth. That he had nothing to gain from lying, and what _would_ it gain? The cooperation of the police, to look aside as Frank McAllister broke every law imaginable? The trust of two low-ranking FBI Agents committed to hunting down the very people Henry Brooks epitomized? So, okay, Donnelly was pretty sure Henry Brooks had a lot to gain from their help.

But then there was the issue of magic.

There was no question that Donnelly and Monroe now knew too much. Brooks might have simply bribed a judge should Frank McAllister be caught. Why would he go through them when he could have let the Hit Wizards dispose of them and be done with it? Perhaps Brooks had a heart? He scoffed loudly at that one, nearly spilling his drink when he began to laugh. A person like Brooks having a heart…the thought was ridiculous. He could almost hear Monroe's objection to that, telling him Brooks didn't seem like the Adolf Hitler to-change-the-world sociopath. Donnelly could admit that the lad didn't seem like Hitler at all. He certainly had more power at his fingertips.

Magic would allow Brooks a hold over important people that others hadn't been able to acquire in the past. Magic would allow Brooks to easily silence those that might object. And if the boy really didn't give a rat's ass about the price of his actions, then they were all screwed. He raised his glass to the television and nodded to himself. They were all completely _fucked_.

Donnelly wasn't a fool. He knew he was a very small part of the bigger plan, and he knew what the bigger plan was (or at least some of it). The offer was this: a voice in a rising insurgency, the chance to be morality where there was none and to enforce it, a chance to resurrect old dreams, a prospect of leaving the bitterness behind and doing something great with himself. To finally be a part of a world that he was proud to be a part of. All of these aged ideals had been abandoned with time. Could they live again and be just as ferocious? Somehow, there was faith in him that they could because the boy, that _infuriating_ Henry Brooks, had brought out something in Donnelly he hadn't felt in a long while.

Determination.

It seemed mad to him then - and he downed another glass just to be a glutton - that two days ago Donnelly had thought the world was only made up of big shots, little shots, and no shots. It seemed crazy that two days ago Donnelly looked at Henry Brooks with disgust, because he was a goldfish in a sea of sharks.

_There's more. There's always more. _

Now Brooks _was _the shark, and goddamn it, the _only _one. Donnelly wasn't stupid, what Brooks had said about magic made sense. It was a very real threat to his way of life, it would take over and consume and Agent Donnelly now knew about it before everyone else. _Now_ he had the choice to live on the right side, or die on the wrong one. Which wasn't really much of a selection.

The question was, really, did Donnelly have the courage to live, or the courage to die? Could he join hands with a veritable devil, and likely prosper at the expense of others? And wasn't that a 'one versus the many' question, and so over-analyzed it made even philosophers sick? He was being maudlin now, and Donnelly slammed his glass down and changed the channel.

He couldn't tell anyone about what he had seen and heard today, Brooks had neglected to mention the consequences of that because he knew Donnelly would realize it for himself. Going about spouting news of underground worlds full of Wizards and magic would lose him his job and guarantee him a bed in a nut-house. He couldn't go to a superior, because it looked like the 'Hit Wizards' had commandeered that spot without needing any votes.

In any event, it seemed like Donnelly was helpless. No doubt others would come after his team for what they had seen. He just didn't know who. It made him unprepared, it made him frightful, and it made him vulnerable. Donnelly hated being vulnerable.

But then, he wasn't really was he? Brooks had given him a choice.

Drinking down his bourbon, he swore into the darkness of his house and said, "Not much of a choice." He shook his head and a wave of anger spread over him. "What the fuck do I do now?" he nearly yelled.

The phone rang, and he glanced down at it warily, as if he were caught doing something wrong. "First sign of insanity, Donny," he muttered to himself, and grabbed up the receiver quickly.

"This is Donnelly."

"Hey."

He raised his eyebrows at Monroe's slightly panicked tone, from the current situation they had found themselves in or having the daring to call Donnelly off duty, he didn't know. "What's up?" he asked as patiently as possible.

She breathed into the phone heavily. "Maybe we should talk about this. Together. You know," Monroe stuttered.

Donnelly _did _know, but the woman had seemed completely reluctant to speak about it with him earlier, when they _could_ have gone somewhere and reasoned their options out, and Donnelly wouldn't have had to come home and get drunk. Alone. He mimicked shooting himself in the head with his index finger and thumb and responded lazily, "Sure, Monroe."

"Well what are you doing now? Are you busy? If you're tired we can forget it and talk about it tomorrow, but well…I don't know about Marks, see, he doesn't know yet and I…."

Donnelly tuned her out for a moment, moving the mouth piece down to his jaw. He was too drunk to go anywhere and not at all in the mood to have a heart-to-heart with Monroe. Though it did seem important that they do so, because for some odd reason Donnelly was in the frame of mind that this would be their last day alive, that this was the interim peace before the big end. Or a life-altering decision, but whatever.

He suddenly focused on the television, where the news had come up in his channel flipping again.

"A prominent family in upper Manhattan has disappeared from their home," the newscaster said. "Neighbors say they heard gunshots before the police showed up to address the disturbance, and found the house empty and near destroyed. Authorities will continue the investigation, and a statement will be announced some time in the next few days. If anyone has any information on the whereabouts of Oscar and Jana Van Rued, please contact Detective Mills at the Manhattan Police Department. In Brooklyn today…."

"Donnelly?" Monroe said loudly in his ear, and he turned his attention back to her with dread. She was using that voice that set his teeth on edge.

"Yeah, I'm here."

"Where do you want to meet?"

He sighed. "Come over here. I can't walk without falling on my fucking face."

She laughed. "I hope you have more of whatever your drinking. I'm going to need it."

"It ain't two-buck-chuck, Monroe," he said lightly, pulling the lever down so that his legs flopped rather uselessly to the ground, "I'll see you in twenty."

He hung up the phone and breathed in through his nose quickly; steeling himself for the inevitable chat they would have to have. He turned off the television and switched on the light beside his chair, not wanting the place to look too brooding for the ever peppy Alicia Monroe. Donnelly got up and got out another glass, and another bottle of bourbon. He waited for his partner to show up, sitting as casually as possible, and felt a bit calm in doing so. At least, there were some friends in this mad world.

.o00o.

When the trinket in his office remained lit, Dumbledore felt close to bursting with joy and anticipation. The boy had survived the fight, and excitement of their inescapable meeting made him grin madly and congratulate himself. He had made the right choice not intervening, after all.

Dumbledore moved out of his office and through the school, and once he'd reached the boundary of the wards, he Apparated to the coordinates the Hit Wizard had given him. Unfortunately, the strong wards outside of the manor wouldn't even let him through the gate. He marveled at the strength in the magic before him, and something like wariness settled in the pit of his stomach. Before he could speculate the state of Harry's magic a voice came from behind him, and he started.

"You want to speak to me?"

He turned and met the slightly familiar green eyes of his very missed and highly sought-after prophecy child.

When Lily and James had brought little Harry Potter into the world, the baby had been the standard adorable of all children. The blue eyes at birth had been tinged with such a green that there was no doubt as to what color they would eventually be, and Lily had smiled smugly at James as if they had some sort of bet on it. He did indeed have Lily's green eyes complemented by her delicate face, and as he observed the boy he noticed all of her walk and her talk in him. Though he resembled his father almost unnervingly, the eyes brought out that hidden part of his mother.

The long jean clad legs could only be James's genes, as were the full lips and the messy pitch-black hair. The boy wasn't tall, rather average and proportioned perfectly, and he had his father's slim muscles but his mother's curved hips. His black duffle coat seemed old but well cared for, and it fit tight across his smooth broad shoulders. Harry stood straight-backed and cautious, dressed in fine clothing and bearing more than a few scars, and looking for all the world as if Albus Dumbledore hadn't come to his door knocking.

There was no way the lad didn't know who he was. Dumbledore knew that the wards took knowledge, and Harry Potter had not simply winged this particular feat in spell work. Not only that, the boy was too calm to be surprised, and too nonchalant to not be aware of the man in front of him. Dumbledore smiled congenially and tried to look benign.

"You must be Harry," he said, moving forward a bit.

"I must be," the lad quipped, "and I am. You must be Albus Dumbledore."

_Just as I thought_, Dumbledore cheered in his head, so he had a tutor! _But best watch this one, this isn't what I expected. _

Harry smiled at him, suddenly amused. "Who doesn't know the great Albus Dumbledore?" he said, shifting his weight. "I do have a question though, sir. What do you want with me?"

"You must know," Dumbledore pointed out lightly, "It was you at the Department of Mysteries that night. The signature, you see…."

"It's changed," Harry told him with a wave of his hand, "it changed and you found me that way."

The wariness Dumbledore had felt before rose up once more, and he licked his chapped lips and gave the boy a strained smile.

"Perhaps we could speak," he asked, looking at their surroundings very obviously. "Maybe a place more private, my boy? I have quite a bit to tell you," he chuckled softly.

Harry inclined his head very slowly, and then looked up at him knowingly. Dumbledore thought the expression soft and harsh at the same time, and didn't quite know what to think. He settled for stuffing his beard into his belt and waiting patiently for an answer.

"You want me to go to your school," the boy finally said, and in his eyes there was no room for denial of Dumbledore's intentions. In his eyes there was respect and hesitance, and Albus was suddenly confused as to what game Harry was playing. He had never, ever been confused before - at least not when it came to people.

"I - well, yes, my boy. I wo-would like you to come to Hogwarts," he took a breath. "I find that I'm more comfortable there than anywhere else, you see, and I have a feeling that _you _might appreciate the privacy of my office as well," he explained, victoriously whooping in his head at getting out of _that _sinkhole of an accusation. He wished he hadn't sputtered so, however.

Harry merely kept up that small turn of his lips, somehow mocking and deferential at the same time. "Hogwarts it is. I need to settle a few things here first, sir. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all, not at all," Dumbledore affirmed swiftly, hope rising inside of him. The choice of words suggested a long term visit. Perhaps the boy would attend as a student? But then he may be hoping for a little too much.

"How about twenty-four hours from now, sir?" Harry suggested, shoving his hands in his pockets with a dip of his head.

Dumbledore grinned. "Please, Harry, you don't need to call me sir," he corrected with a tiny laugh. "It makes me feel old, you see. I do believe we're in agreement on the details of your arrival, though."

Surprisingly, Harry took his hand and shook it. "I look forward to a proper meeting, sir," he said, showing cheek that Dumbledore knew he had gotten from his father.

"I trust you can Floo, Harry?" he queried, and the boy nodded. "Then I'll have you Floo to the Hog's Head in Hogsmeade, it is run by my brother Aberforth, don't mind the smell. I'll have a Professor retrieve you at the gates."

Harry tilted his head to the side, smiling bemusedly. "You don't have to go through that much trouble," he said slowly, before lifting a shoulder. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."

Surprised, but slightly pleased with the boy's ready acceptance, Albus let Harry walk past him and through the gates to the extravagant manor. He knew he could let Harry go, because Dumbledore knew where he was now, and had a very strong tag on his signature. Albus had a feeling Harry knew it as well, and in his gut, he thought that maybe the boy had wanted it that way.

"Goodbye, sir," the boy's turned back said.

He smiled. "See you soon, my boy," he added, raising his voice at the retreating form.

Dumbledore returned to his school, able to finally sit down at his desk and not feel the pressure of the expectations of the world crush him. To not have to worry about a lost boy and a resurrected Dark Lord, and he sighed into his empty office and finally relaxed. The golden trinket on his desk swirled once, before falling still, but Dumbledore did not see it, because he had closed his eyes in the pleasure of his success.

.o00o.

Henry gasped as Frank pulled out; his body shuddering with the aftershocks of his climax. Beside him, Frank reclined on the pillow, breathing in and out deeply. Henry threw a blanket over the both of them and reached over for a drink of water. Frank passed him a cigarette a bit awkwardly, and Henry gave him an amused look as he lit it. He waved the match out and dropped it into his cup.

"I wish you wouldn't," Frank said softly, and they both knew he was only saying it to say something.

"I wish you would," Henry responded, throwing the words back to his bed partner. Frank moved to lay on his side, holding up his head with his elbow.

"I'm sober now," he stated the obvious. "I'm sincere right now. I know what you want."

"Besides a good fuck?" Henry hedged, the smoke from his cigarette swirling above them. "Or how about me wanting you to stop being vague for once."

"I'm being serious."

"So am I," he took a drag and sighed. "I've looked for the perfect boss for years, Frankie. Someone clever enough and fair enough to help me on this endeavor…of a sort. I've looked everywhere for a leader. Patrick was mad. Van Rued was too flighty, too absent. But you…you're perfect, you know."

"I'm not," Frank objected very loudly, of a sudden. "I'm weak."

"In the eyes of your inferiors, you won't ever be," Henry said, patting Frank's bare shoulder. "Because I'm the only one you would ever admit it to, love."

Frank let out a deep breath. "Why not go for a bigger man, Brooks. I don't even fucking know if I'm up to what you're proposing."

He couldn't help himself. "To fags, size doesn't matter," he joked with his smoke hanging on the side of his lip. Frank didn't seem impressed.

"Alright," Henry gave in, sobering, "the reason why I won't go for a 'bigger man' as you say, is because only the immoral know morality. I need a boss that will and won't have issues with injustice. You're a fair guy, Frank McAllister," he exhaled and nodded. "You're perfect, and you being nervous about it is only making me want you more."

Frank slapped a hand across his eyes. "I'm old and tired, kid," he complained, and Henry shrugged. "Should I be scared? This 'no mercy' attitude you have going on…it's freaking me out."

"It's freaking _me _out that you oppose it," Henry quipped. "Denny would say you'd gone soft."

"Denny," he mentioned casually, looking at the boy from the corner of his eye. "You never talk about him," he mentioned.

Henry was silent for a long time, slowly inhaling and exhaling smoke, before he stubbed it out and sat up. "I don't want to talk about Denny," he said.

"Well, why the fuck not?" Frank snapped. "You've been a little shit lately, you know. All talk about big ass plans and killing people."

The lad turned his head and gaped. "Are you fucking kidding me?" he bit out, angry. "Should I have just let you get killed? Let your men die for a stupid gang war?"

"You could do it without a smile on your face," he countered. "I know you're not that cold-hearted. You're a little fucking kid who has lost his dad and is making everyone fucking pay for it."

Henry got up, and it looked as though he was running.

"Half the time you act like you know exactly what you're doing," Frank continued loudly, watching as Henry pulled his jeans on quickly. "But you don't know shit, you've just got some crazy ass idea that you're owed something-"

"I don't have to fucking listen to this," Henry told him furiously, his shirt clutched so tightly it looked as though it might rip. "Shut the fuck up, Frankie."

"You don't talk about Denny because you run away from the things that make you seem human. Loving someone makes you human. You're not God, kid, no matter what you think, and you know what? This is the fucking funny part," he laughed and Henry's face went red, and the lad was breathing heavily as if to stave off an explosion of fury. "The funny part is that if Denny Brooks were here, he would tell you the same thing."

"Denny _isn't _here!" the lad shouted. "He isn't here because he can't be. Because I refuse to get him out."

"And now you feel guilty," Frank retorted sarcastically.

"And now I feel guilty," Henry agreed somewhat waspishly. He sat down on the side of the bed, deflating like a sad sort of balloon, and Frank stared at his still naked back emotionlessly. "If I get him out, I'll have to use my magic, Frank. Do you know what that means?"

He didn't wait for Frank's answer, which was rather a good thing, considering the man didn't have one.

"It means I would draw attention to myself, and the people in that world would know what I am and what I want. They would look at Denny and know he was close to me. I'd play my hand too early, and I would lose everything."

Frank clenched his teeth. "So this is all about strategy is it? All about who hits first? What about Denny?"

"What _about _Denny?" Henry hollered at him, standing up again. "I can't help Denny, I _can't_," he said, his voice breaking. "It isn't safe outside of prison."

He knew what Henry meant. Frank understood the boy's logic, however cold and twisted. He also knew that Henry would never be able to claim absolute apathy. Not at his age or any age afterward. There were three Henrys that Frank knew: the overconfident 'fuck all' teen that set his teeth on edge, the invaluable and ever wise confidant that Frank didn't feel guilty taking to his bed, and the little boy who had gotten a kick in the face rather than a life. The kid still stuck on the streets.

"At least to me, can you admit it?" Frank finally asked, quietly.

"There's nothing to admit," Henry said, sinking down and laying as though he were thrown onto the bed. "I know what I'm doing, for the most part," he paused, and then he started to laugh.

Frank laughed with him. "You don't know shit, and neither do I," he chuckled. "Maybe that's what you want; a revolution of fools."

"At least we're special," Henry said idly. "I'm tired of History repeating itself, it makes us look bad."

"I don't not think you can do it," he commented, and when Henry gave him an amused look, he glared. "You know what I mean. I just think you'd have a better time of it if you admitted your mistakes."

Henry raised his hands to the ceiling before flopping them down again, a small frown on his face. "I'm aware of them," he said. "But I'll take your advice anyway, because you're old and wise." Henry looked at him from the corner of his eye. "Speaking of which, are you done for the next few days or-"

Frank rolled on top of him and Henry laughed. The boy's stomach moved beneath his own, up and down with pants of amusement, and Frank thought that it was probably the loveliest thing he had ever felt.

"Ready, are you?" Henry said breathlessly. "Come on, old man."

When they had finished, and the darkness had settled over the house like a blanket, Frank dozed beside Henry as the boy smoked cigarette after cigarette. Frank muttered for the kid to open a window, and he heard the footsteps and a creak, before the breeze hit his bare shoulders and he shivered and pulled his blanket up. Henry did not crawl back into bed with him, so Frank opened his eyes and looked over curiously.

"I've gotten the Feds off your back," Henry said, sitting on the chair beside the window and drawing his knees up to his chest. "I wanted you to say that you understand, Frankie, that you're with me, because I need to leave."

"I know," Frank nodded into his pillow. "It seemed pretty fucking obvious that you were hitting the road."

The boy didn't say anything, but he did wrap his arms around his waist and stare at Frank expectantly, who sighed. "I'm on your side kid, alright? My question is, what the fuck am I supposed to do while you're off being Mr. Goody-Two-Shoes in Magicland?"

Henry smiled. "I was hoping you would ask that," he said ominously. "There are some people that I need. You will attain them for me."

"I don't dabble in human trafficking."

"I mean alliances, Frankie," Henry said, getting to his feet and starting to put his clothes on. "While I'm gone, I'll need you to contact a few people. I'll drop in from time to time to see how all of it goes, but you'll be on your own, mostly. If you need money, or backup, just call me."

"Lovely," Frank responded sarcastically. "So while I'm back here playing Toby what'll you be doing?"

"There are some things I need to take care of in the Wizarding World. A few men with delusions of grandeur are causing trouble and I'm being propositioned by an old man to take care of it."

"Delusions of grandeur, eh?" Frank scoffed. "That's calling the kettle black."

Henry shoved on his jacket and nodded absently. "The only difference is there are no delusions," he smirked pompously, and held his arms out as if to show himself off, "only grandeur."

.o00o.

"Human father!" Bo shouted excitedly, and craned his long neck to see Henry arrive into the den. He captured the protruding snout and hugged Bo around the neck, laughing a bit when the dragon sniffed at him with fervor.

"Hello! Hello!" Tenebres said just as enthusiastically. "You are back!"

"I am," Henry said, smiling as Bo tried to wrap himself around Henry's shoulders. He was a bit too big now to do so, however.

"And how are things?" Ten asked, stomping his large feet and nudging Bo away from Henry. The drake pouted, but moved back and ceased suffocating the boy.

"Yes, yes," Bo repeated quickly, "how are you?"

"Well," Henry started, but stopped and bit his lip. "I was hoping Griphook was here as well," he said instead.

"He'll be along shortly," Ten assured him with a small shake of his head. "Tell us what has happened, Dragon Speaker."

Henry did, and it wasn't until Griphook made his belated entrance that he recapped and finished his tale. He told them of Tyler's descent into madness, of Denny being incarcerated, and his pride and hopes in Franklin McAllister. He briefly mentioned the war that had just finished in New York, because Bo wanted to know what they ate in New York and if Henry had made lots of money there. He described the place for Bo to imagine, and then went on to tell them about how he had met Frank in the first place. They were interested in his story, and asked plenty of questions, so by the time he was finished they had been talking for over two hours about the events of the last year.

"You have accomplished much since the last time we met," Griphook said at the end, pleased. "I am curious, though. What of your deal with the Dark Lord? What do you mean by it?"

"Ah, yes, well," Henry said, wrapping an arm around Bo. "He won't know I'm back in England just yet, and the civility we have should allow for an advantage in the future, I'm thinking."

"And Dumbledore?"

Henry laughed. "The enemy of my enemy is my friend," he said, simply. Griphook nodded, aware that the boy would give nothing else away.

"Your magic is different," Bo suddenly said, snuffling his way through Henry's hair. "It smells different."

Before Henry could explain, Ten said matter-of-factly, "He has accepted his true signature."

Henry nodded, looking at Bo. "I have. It seemed prudent to do so, finally."

"Do you feel any different?" Bo asked curiously, gazing at him as though he would explode at any moment. Henry grinned and tapped him on the nose.

"Yes," he said sincerely. "More controlled. Less anxious. Steady."

Griphook smiled at him grimly, showing teeth that would have been frightening had Henry been nine again. "Your power has always been this way. Your plans have merit," Griphook complimented him. "I am surprised you moved so quickly, though."

"For me, yes," Henry answered vaguely. "Denny is forced to stay in prison, and I can't get him out yet. 'Yet' meaning for quite possibly _months_."

"Your human father is safe there," Ten argued. "And you know it. Leave it at that, Dragon Speaker."

Griphook inclined his head to show that he agreed with Ten, and Henry dropped the subject.

"Griphook," he said to the goblin. "Do you know anything about the Mercenaries Guild?"

His friend was thoughtful for a moment, and then he looked at Henry closely and didn't seem at all surprised Henry had asked. "They're a group of Wizard mercenaries," Griphook explained. "They think themselves the law of their kind. They go after their brethren. A mercenary is executed when they break the greatest law they have."

Henry looked at Griphook expectantly when he paused, and the goblin grimaced and said, "If a mercenary chooses power over money, the Guild disposes of them."

"Wealth is power," Henry objected, but Griphook sneered at him.

"According to their laws it's not," he said, and then he pointed a gnarled finger at the boy. "And you know why."

Henry glanced away, but nodded.

"They move subtly, so it's impossible to find who is a part of them and where they are located. The Guild has been around since the Dark Ages, Wizard, and I know this because they were hired in the Goblin Wars to fight us. They killed many of my kind."

"Could they be hired again?" Henry asked, and then realized how insensitive that sounded. "I apologize, I mean would they join a side now? If money were involved?"

Griphook shook his head. "It's unlikely," he said. "They govern themselves now. They are more wealthy than you can even imagine."

"They're keeping Denny from me," Henry confessed with a sigh. "I tried to get him out with bribes. I threw most of my money into it. They're keeping him from me."

"They're keeping him _locked up_," Ten corrected.

"How many are there?"

"Hundreds," Griphook told him. "Possibly thousands. Their leader went to great lengths to recruit new operatives in the last century."

"So they have a leader," Henry said interestedly. "Do you know who it is?"

Griphook looked apologetic. "I do not," he admitted. "The leader goes by a name that cannot be traced, that has no registered signature, and most do not address him personally anyway. Those that do, call him Ammon."

"An apt name," Henry said absently. "Do you have access to international deposit records?"

Griphook grinned again. "I do," he affirmed, catching on.

"I would be very much in your debt if you could possibly investigate the large accounts, the ones that receive daily deposits of small denominations. He would work that way, I imagine. Look for a name that is relatively normal. A Smith, perhaps. Trust your intuition."

"All debts are paid, Wizard. Your wards have successfully deterred the Dark Lord from entering," the goblin said.

Henry started. "Did he recognize the wards as my old signature? Do you know?" he questioned quickly.

"We have cloaked your signature with ours. He only suspects goblin interference, as it should be," Griphook calmed him.

"He will see that as an act of war," Henry said somewhat unnecessarily.

Tenebres spoke this time, having listened quietly to their conversation without having anything to say. "Don't be thick, Dragon Speaker. We have been on your side from the very beginning."

Bo sidled up to Henry and attached himself to the boy's side. "Yeah!" the drake said, "Don't be thick!"

Griphook looked far more serious, however. "Don't fail," he said simply, and Henry felt the pressure of pleasing the goblin nearly overwhelm him. Griphook left them to their own devices then, and Henry turned back to the dragons thoughtfully.

"He'd probably gut me if I lost the war, huh?"

Ten chose not to laugh, but struggled to mask his amusement. "Perhaps not gut you, my friend, but it would hurt."

Bo nudged Henry on the cheek. "Are you _really_ back now?" he said hopefully. "No more leaving me? Because I missed you."

He sighed and stroked a hand down Bo's pure white scales. "I promise," he said to his drake. "No more leaving."

.o00o.

McKay agreed to meet him at the diner, provided Henry keep his magic to himself so that John wouldn't _ever _have to return to god awful Paris again. His wife had loved the goddamn place, but John swore if he ever saw that French Casanova again there would be blood. Stupid mustache wearing asshole. John hadn't liked the food either, he had gained over fifty pounds just eating breakfast there. Mary and the girls had loved it though, so he only grumbled when it didn't matter and where they couldn't hear. He really hoped Brooks kept his end of the bargain. He wasn't going back to France.

The lad was sitting at their usual booth with two cups of coffee in front of him and a book. He walked forward and Henry smiled at him, actually getting up to give him a quick hug.

"Sparky," John greeted him, and the boy grinned.

"How was Paris?"

"I don't want to talk about it," he said blankly, and sat down. As he was dressing his coffee, Henry waited not so patiently until he took his first sip, coughed, and gave in. "Mary liked the shops, and the girls got frilly things to wear. Some letch tried to charm Mary with his Frenchness. I put a stop to that right away, let me tell you."

Henry laughed. "I'm glad it was enjoyable," he said sardonically, handing John his new book.

"_Nicholas Nickelby_," John murmured, looking at it closely. "First edition, lad," he raised it up a bit, "To make up for sending me to France."

"Sure," Henry shrugged. "We missed you over here, you know. You and your sore temper, deadpan jokes, and by god, even the obsession with Horatio Alger type stories."

"Dickens vaunted it first, kid. Alger was full of shit," he said distractedly, looking at the binding.

"Why the rags-to-riches nonsense, anyway?" Henry suddenly asked. "It's been bothering me."

John took a sip of his coffee and glanced at the boy closely. "You should really read Dickens sometime. You might like him," he said simply.

Henry gave up. He told John about what had happened since his little vacation instead, and assured the man that the Hit Wizards that had had it out for John were taken care of.

"Well, fuck," McKay said, looking up from his twisted napkin. "You've gone and made my life easier, but am I out of a goddamn job, or what?"

Henry frowned. "What do you mean?"

"There's no competition now. Nothing. We have the greatest weapons ever engineered," he stopped there and pointed at Henry. "Which you have yet to let me use. And we also have a pretty powerful Wizard with us to take care of the supernatural. What the fuck am I supposed to do?"

Shaking his head, Henry grinned at him and laughed a bit. "There's plenty more to be done, old man. Plenty. First of all, you can make sure Frank is protected, and protect yourself and your family in the meantime. You can take the scotch away when he's shit faced. You can, I dunno, _rule_ New York with him?"

"Why does it sound like you're leaving? Are you leaving? Why does it sound like that?"

"For a little while," Henry said, finishing his coffee. "Not long. Taking over the world is a risky business you know. Don't rush me."

"You are such a fag," John said to him without maliciousness.

Henry raised his empty mug in cheers.

They both turned when the bell over the door jingled, out of experience now, and watched Agent Donnelly and Monroe enter. They Feds ran their eyes around the place for a moment, before Donnelly caught sight of Henry and made his way over.

Before they arrived at the booth, John grinned with ill-intent before Henry tapped him on the arm. The boy mouthed 'no' at him, to keep the man from starting anything with the two, and though John looked confused, he did back down.

"Brooks," Donnelly said when they made it over to them. "McKay," he greeted a lot more intolerantly.

McKay smiled.

They stood in complete silence. Henry said nothing, John nodded and grinned wider, Monroe fidgeted, and Donnelly scowled.

"Alright, alright," Agent Donnelly snapped, glaring around the table. "We're in."

Henry wasn't surprised, and he waved a hand at the booth with a pleasant smile. "Then sit the fuck down and have a cup of coffee."

And they did just that.

.o00o.

Harry was impressed with the castle, and really, how could he not be? He walked across the grounds to the school his parents had attended, where he knew his family was, where he knew a manipulative old man was watching his approach from a window high atop the clock tower. Taking a heavy drag of his smoke, he hoisted his backpack higher onto his shoulder and smiled into the wind.

He made his way to Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry with all of the promise he was sure his parents had expected of him. Perhaps not as sinister; perhaps not as despairing, but Harry was there and that had to be enough. He crushed his cigarette beneath his shoe and trudged towards another war. The sky turned the color of dusk, and the sun began to set.


	17. Chapter Sixteen

A/N: Of all of the riff raff in this story, this part has been, by far, my favorite to write. Not only do we get to go back to the HP world, but I can finally slide into the main pairing of this fic. I'll warn you in advance: the romance won't start just yet, since there's other stuff to think about than you know…sex (?). Twenty reviews for the last chapter? Thank you! You guys really cheered me up with your comments, since RL pretty much blew chunks this week. Enjoy this next chapter. Our favorite blond will be here soon, I promise. Ready for some fun? I know I am. Chapter Seventeen will be epic. I've already started on it.

A Few Responses: Kantarose: decadent and striking? Thank you! I'm blushing right now but you can't see it. Don't you just love reading a story all in one go? It's my favorite thing to do. In fact, I'm updating every week because I want this story out there, so that people can read it in one go. Unfortunately, I would procrastinate if I didn't have a deadline, so it would never get out. I know my head and just how lazy I can be :). Thanks, as always, for reviewing! I loves your reviews. Xoxoxo back, of course! Ana: LOL, I know what you mean. Some stories just keep popping up everywhere and I'm all, "I don't want to read that right now, I don't like that genre at the moment, why is this story always around? I don't want to read-okay, I'll read it. Okay, I love it. Why am I so stubborn and UPDATE SOON!" I'm very happy it turned out to be something you liked, after all. Amazonia: I just love you so much. I'll talk to you later this afternoon. I missed you on Tuesday, dearest.

Dedication: to **OccAmy Phyre** for recommending Pistol Whipped in her latest chapter! Lol, I never get reviews or alerts on Wednesdays, so when hump day came around and I had twelve or so alerts in my inbox, I ran about wondering why people suddenly started to review. Then, I figured out (hours later) that this wonderful author had rec'd PW in her chapter as she said she would in her review. You must have awesome readers, love, because they ran over to my story and heaped lovely messages upon me. It certainly made my week a bit more sunny. So, thank you dearest, thank you so much! Once I update, I'm planning on skipping (yes, skipping) over to your story because I read the summary and shouted, "GOLD!"

Thanks to Dime for looking this over!

Warnings for this chapter: language, Snape-baiting, and plot build up (that can be hazardous, you know).

* * *

Pistol Whipped

Chapter Sixteen

Albus called for Severus the moment he arrived back to his office. Fawkes twittered at him curiously as he sat down with a sigh, the green fire of the Floo fading quickly to red and orange once more.

"It is all taken care of, my friend," he said to the phoenix, who raised his head and trilled as if to say, is it really?Albus dipped his head in thought as Fawkes went back to dozing.

He felt tremendously accomplished, having convinced Harry Potter to come to the school with little persuasion and without - what Dumbledore had feared may be needed - _force_. The boy, admittedly, was not what he had thought he would be, and Albus forbade the surprise he felt to linger amidst his outlooks any longer. So what if the boy, who was barely sixteen, had made a name for himself in the Muggle world? The Hit Wizard had not censored his words on Harry Potter.

The lad was, apparently, neck deep in crime and unlikely to trudge his way out of the broiling discord of the Muggle world any time soon. Though Albus did not approve of Harry's obvious penchant for illegality, he did condone the boy's attachment to the world of Muggles. It boded well that Harry would not seek to emulate the ethics of Voldemort.

He found the status of the wayward Potter remarkable, for all of his admonishment for Harry's less than lawful actions. In both the Magical and Muggle worlds, making oneself a person of eminence (or notoriety in this case) was desperately hard to do. Yet, the lad had done it. The name Henry Brooks was tantamount (as the Hit Wizard had explained to him rather impatiently) to Albus Dumbledore in the Wizarding World. Albus pushed away the thought that one day it would mean more when cast as an analogous to _Voldemort. _The alias, he thought by way of changing the direction of his thoughts, was interesting in itself. Dumbledore made a note to look into the history of the name Brooks, _perhaps in the helpful government archives Muggles employed? Hmm, yes. _Judging by the way the American Hit Wizards had spoken about "Henry Brooks", he was a formidable character and quite unpopular with the nation's law enforcement. Albus didn't know why, since Harry had been perfectly affable with _him_. Even so, the suspicion of both the lad's impressive magic and his past misdeeds held Dumbledore back from hollering up and down the halls that Harry Potter would be joining the Sixth year. Of course, Albus had no idea if Harry would agree in the first place.

_Don't get your hopes up, you know_, he thought to himself with a careful look at the only golden trinket on display in his office. _You can't afford to be surprised. _

A short knock sounded from his door, and Dumbledore called for Severus to come in. There was no trickery afoot in Albus knowing who exactly was outside his office, for Severus Snape seemed to be the only person in the world capable of conveying disgruntled impatience in one sharp rap. He folded his hands on his desk and greeted his potions professor.

"Good evening, Severus," he said cheerfully, motioning for the man to sit. "How are you, my boy?"

The dark eyes so intelligent yet so entirely acrimonious upon him never failed to make Dumbledore shudder internally. He wished that Severus had loved more and hated less, but feared to push the man in any which way lest he flee. Albus smiled at him kindly though he felt more like grimacing.

"Headmaster," Severus said simply. "I am well."

Fawkes chortled and Dumbledore thought, _perhaps_ _a little more disdain, my boy, if at all possible. _

"Thank you for coming on such short notice. I hope I did not draw you away from anything important?"

"No," he denied, frowning. "Only the trivial, Albus."

"Good, good," he stopped the pleasantries, because Severus was using _double entendre _to prompt Albus to get to the point. "At precisely four o'clock tomorrow (if he is punctual), we will have a visitor to the school. I must request that you escort him to my office from the boundary of the wards."

"A _visitor?_" Severus repeated with raised eyebrows and obviously aghast. "You would risk deactivating the wards for _a visitor_?"

Albus didn't mention that he thought Harry would simply disable them himself, the manor wards _had _been astonishingly adroit, and said instead, "For Harry Potter I do believe we can make an exception."

Belatedly, Albus supposed he could have delivered the news without being so very outwardly jolly about it, and more reserved given the extent of Severus's hatred for anything "Potter". But, really, the headmaster felt he deserved congratulations for finding the lad who had been exceedingly difficult to pinpoint as Severus well knew. He was excited enough about the latest development in Harry's case, and really shouldn't be made to contain himself. Fawkes trilled in agreement.

Severus was glaring at him. "Can we indeed?" he said, his voice as smooth as salt on an open wound. His eyes narrowed. "So the little brat has finally decided to grace us with his, no doubt_, bravura _celebrity?"

"He is rather magnificent," Dumbledore affirmed without thinking, and then cleared his throat when Severus grew pale. "He agreed at once to come to the school, Severus, and was very congenial. I admit he is not at all what I expected from Lily and James's son, but he is very capable, I should think." Albus smiled and said innocently, "_You_ may even take to him."

"I find that hard to believe, headmaster," Severus said crossly. "Where exactly was the boy? Hiding beneath the putrid ignominy of the homeless?"

Dumbledore gave him a sharp look. "I should like your opinion when you have met him Severus, and less of your intolerance," he chastised pleasantly. "America, New York to be precise."

His potions master had looked sheepish at the admonishment, but it seemed Albus had not successfully dissuaded him from hating the boy entirely. "Wonderful," Severus commented with acid dripping from his words. "We can expect a barbarian, I assume," he snarled, and rose from his seat. "Four in the afternoon, headmaster."

"As you will, Severus."

Before he left, Severus turned about and asked Albus with rather sincere petition, "Must it be me?"

"If you are ready, of course."

Severus leaned against the open door, observing Albus carefully and trying in vain to not glare at the man disrespectfully. When he marched out of the door, luckily tactful enough to not slam it, Albus watched him go with his eyes twinkling and his undue cheer threatening to spill from him in a wave. He turned to the phoenix pruning attentively, and gave a small smug grin.

"Nicely done, don't you think?" he said to Fawkes, who raised his right wing and tittered as if to say, _nicely done. _

.o00o.

Harry really had been enjoying the grounds. The lovely wide open landscape would make for a lovely football field, or perhaps a peaceful ride on horseback. He thought of Denny, who would rejoice in the clean cut grass perfect for his favorite game, but pushed that recollection away in favor of Cherry, his old russet colored mare.

She would have had plenty to graze on while Harry basked in the cool Scotland breeze. And then Bo, who would adore the spires and the lake while no doubt making a good meal of the resident Merpeople Harry had seen briefly in the waving depths of the water. Now that he was back in England (for awhile if Dumbledore had his way) Harry made a vow to let Bo experience Hogwarts in all of its glory before the end of the year. He grinned at the ruckus the overly enthusiastic reptile would cause.

His peaceful stroll was interrupted by a flying _something_, that whisked by his head and nearly decapitated him rather rudely. He slowed the ball down and summoned it to his hands, immediately recognizing it as a wayward Bludger.

"Sorry, mate," a boy on a broom hollered, his hair askew from the wind. He flew up to Harry, looking apologetic and fascinated all at once.

Harry handed him the Bludger and smiled. "Not a problem," he responded politely.

The boy scratched his head. "Do you go here? I've never seen you before."

"I'm visiting."

"Oh," the boy floundered, hovering softly so that the tips of his shoes touched the blades of grass beneath him. "I'm Michael Corner, Ravenclaw," he introduced, reaching out a hand to shake. Harry shook it.

"Chris," he said lightly. "It's a pleasure."

Corner grew a bit pale, and with a stuttered "See you!" he was gone. The breeze from the broom moving so quickly by him brushed Harry's hair gently, carrying with it the scent of his still lit cigarette. Harry grinned and began walking again, taking a drag and breathing in the deep air of a place without soot or smoke. How long had it been since Harry had enjoyed the country? He was naturally prone to cities, but found the fresh landscape of beauty untouched just as pleasant as say, a place like London.

He took his time admiring the castle as he drew closer to it, prepared to loiter a little despite the meeting, when he was interrupted again by a less cordial member of Hogwarts. A man swathed in black and wearing an even darker expression marched straight up to him with all the elegance of a very dignified bat. Before his assessment of this new person was complete, the man snapped, "Put that out! There is _no _smoking at this school!"

Harry struggled for a moment, glancing down at his cigarette before bringing his foot up to scrape the offensive habit out. "No smoking?" he asked as he flicked the stub away.

"_No_," the man (who was likely a professor) retorted in such a waspish tone it relayed to Harry just how stupid the question was.

"Well," Harry shrugged lightly. "Fuck me for saying so, but that's bollocks."

He bit the inside of his cheek so hard it began to bleed. Harry had a feeling laughing at this man would only get him into trouble. At least, the professor seemed as though he would blow at any moment after his rather tactless comment and Harry just knew that should this man find it his will to lecture him, the vitriol would never end. Ever.

"Sorry," he finished lamely, when he managed to sedate his amusement.

"I am Professor Severus Snape," the man said quickly, his black eyes bright with derision. "Welcome to Hogwarts."

_Doesn't seem like I'm very welcomed_, Harry thought wryly but nodded gratefully at Snape. "I'm Henry," he returned gladly. "Henry Brooks."

"That is _not _your name!" Snape snapped as Harry came up beside him. He glared at Harry without any self-control and Harry was only a tiny bit startled at the outright hatred in Snape's eyes. "There will be no mendacious anecdotes _here_, Potter. You will treat every student and teacher with _respect_, and follow the conventions of _this_ school. I need not tell you the consequences should you unwisely flout my advice."

They stared at each other for a moment, and the paleness in Snape's face grew even whiter and his eyes seemed darker - impossibly. Harry suddenly smiled.

"You know," he said conversationally. "You're very attractive when you're angry."

Harry looked him up and down in interest, which had Snape positively furious. Instead of seeking penance rather quickly, however, Harry merely walked toward the doors of the castle with an extra skip in his step. Snape followed along sulkily.

.o00o.

"Ah, Harry!" Dumbledore greeted him gaily, just as Severus knew he would, and he scowled and closed the door after himself. "Timely," Dumbledore said, tapping the clock on his desk.

Potter placed his backpack down and took his sunglasses off. He nodded to the headmaster politely, before sitting down and crossing one of his long legs over the other. Snape looked away.

"Sir," Potter began confidently, "thank you for the invitation."

"Oh, it's no trouble at all, my dear boy," Dumbledore said, waving a hand with his eyes twinkling merrily. "Your parents graduated from this school years ago, and your name has been down in the books for years. You are, of course, always welcome at Hogwarts."

Severus couldn't help but glare, couldn't help but watch Potter's elegant hands run up and down his thighs in what seemed to be a nervous habit.

"Tea, Harry?" Dumbledore was asking.

"Yes, please," Potter thanked, taking his mug carefully.

He was definitely more polite than Snape would have thought, and the potions professor begrudgingly allowed that compliment. Mentally. The boy was obviously a little brat, though.

"To business," Dumbledore said, folding his hands and getting comfortable. There was a tingle that told Severus that Dumbledore had put the silencing charms up, and based on Potter's raised eyebrow, the boy had sensed it as well. "I'm sure you know of Lord Voldemort."

Severus flinched, and Dumbledore had the decency to cast a brief apologetic look at his professor. Potter's eyes were on him as well, curious and knowing. Snape decided he hated those eyes, Lily's eyes, and turned away from the rude staring.

"Of course," Potter answered, sipping his tea. The boy smiled and placed the cup on the edge of Dumbledore's desk. "When I was in England his return was merely a rumor, though, sir."

"Are you aware that it is not a rumor?"

"Of course," he said again, his expression sharp. "I trust you understand, sir, how detrimental his cause is, and thus how important it is to cease his progress?"

That seemed to take Dumbledore by surprise, as well as Severus, and Potter continued in the wake of their silence. "I assumed that was why you wanted me here, sir," he said innocently. "Was I wrong?"

"You think you're rather important, don't you Potter?" Snape said disdainfully, and immediately regretted it when Harry turned to look at him again.

"Tell me I'm not, professor," the boy said, amused. Severus felt his spine tingle from how intensely he hated this Potter. Possibly more than James, the obnoxiously arrogant boy's father.

"Perhaps we had best know what you know," Dumbledore gently interrupted. "Am I right to assume it was you at the Department that night?"

"It was," Potter confessed vaguely, taking another sip of his tea. "I think it's best if you assume I know nothing, sir."

Albus narrowed his stare, but when it seemed as though it did little to intimidate the boy, he softened his anger and brightened considerably.

"I suppose we should start with that terrible night on Halloween, when you're parents were murdered…."

.o00o.

The school was ridiculously easy to navigate. He found the signatures of various people without any trouble, Hogwarts in its limited sentience allowing him the benefit of finding the Weasleys without challenge. He was surprised the school was in touch with magic still, after all of the years since it had been built, but was pleased with the interesting status of Hogwarts all the same.

Once he had listened to Dumbledore's theory on the prophecy, on the Horcruxes, Harry had pleaded hunger and Professor Snape had volunteered (ha!) to show Harry to the Great Hall where dinner was in progress. Snape did not speak with him, which Harry really wasn't that broken up about. The meeting, though tedious and full of information Harry was fully aware of, had been intriguing, if only because Dumbledore liked to speak in riddles. It presented a challenge for Harry to predict just what the man planned with his little inscrutable witticisms and Harry knew he could give the old codger a run for his money when it came to ambiguity as well. All in all, they were becoming fast friends.

Dumbledore placed him in rooms down in the dungeons, which seemed to be Snape's territory and this was likely why the man was cross. Unless he was cross all of the time, Harry thought sadly, giving him a sideways glance. He was attractive enough…perhaps all Snape needed was to _relax _a bit?

As they strode along, Harry thought about the upcoming placement tests Dumbledore was insisting he do. Snape had objected completely to allowing Harry into sixth year, but the headmaster obviously preferred he be among the children his own age. Dumbledore speculated Harry was more than ready for sixth year (of course he was) and settled for preparing exams for Harry to gauge just how far home schooling had put him. Harry didn't care, really, only he had tried to recall the no smoking rule at the end of Dumbledore's rant on plans for Harry's stay.

"If you're outside, Harry," the headmaster had told him, smiling pleasantly. "I don't see why it would be a problem."

Snape's glare could have killed.

They finally made it to the hall, and Harry let Snape go before him with a somewhat mocking smile. The chatter inside was a cacophony of yells and laughter from what seemed like every student, and Harry grimaced slightly at the buoyancy of children to make as much ruckus as possible. Snape had such a disgruntled look about him (the one he had sported all night) and Harry glanced at him and wondered if his expression might stick that way.

He caught sight of red hair, and his hopes soared for the first time in a long time. He skirted quickly past Snape, who seemed to like trudging slowly in order to glare at as many students as possible, and came to stand behind Ginny, grinning.

Harry put his hands over her eyes.

"Guess who?"

She was breathing heavily, and worried despite himself, Harry took his hands away and let her turn around. He had startled her.

"Chris!" she squealed, tackling him almost to the ground. "Merlin! What are you _doing _here? Chris, it _i_s you? What on earth…!"

Harry was sorry he didn't tape her mouth shut before he had announced his presence. He hadn't thought it would be possible for the girl to be as, well…_girly _as this with six brothers. There was a reason he was gay.

"Oi!"

He turned and looked down the long table at Ron, who was getting up as fast as he could without toppling over the pile of food in front of him. "Chris, you rubbish best mate!"

Harry met him half way and exchanged a furious hug with his best friend who, despite his harsh words previously, seemed ecstatic to see him. The happy reunion didn't last long, because when Ron pulled away he looked quite angry.

"Where have you been, Chris? You just disappeared!" Ron said loudly.

He didn't see any point in lying, so Harry lifted one shoulder and said, "New York."

"America?" Ginny exclaimed excitedly, having followed Harry to her brother's side of the table. "What was it like? How did you end up _there_?"

"It was a lot like London," Harry told them. "Only bigger and full of Yanks."

Ron clapped him on the back. "A holiday, eh? You were safe though, you know…." he didn't finish, but Harry got it anyway.

"I'm perfectly fine, _Ronnie_," Harry teased, and then raised an eyebrow. "Don't I look good?"

"You _do_- er." Ginny blushed heavily. "You look great," she squeaked.

Ron rolled his eyes.

The resident party crasher made an appearance once again. "Potter," Snape said from behind him. "The headmaster requests you sit beside him during meal times, as you are not a student but a _visitor_ to this school."

Harry turned around. "I'd much rather stay here, if I can," he responded as politely as possible.

"It isn't negotiable, Potter," Snape said tartly. He gave Harry a look that suggested movement, and Harry decided to give in.

"Of course," he said instead, keeping his head. "Excuse me."

Wanting very much to punch Snape right in that epic nose, Harry nodded to his friends and followed the man to the head table.

"What did he _call_ him?" a voice was saying frantically as he walked away. "Did you _hear_ what he _called_ him?"

Judging by the awkward silence, the Weasleys _had_ heard Snape and Harry groaned briefly before sitting in the seat the professor directed him to. _Screw the fame thing_, Harry thought heatedly, casting a look at his two friends, _I'll just have to talk to them. _

"My apologies for interrupting your touching reunion," Snape sneered once they were seated. "How do you know the Weasleys?"

Harry gave him a look, and Snape turned away.

Luckily, Dumbledore didn't do anything as spectacular as introduce Harry to the entire Great Hall, and was perhaps dissuaded from telling the school about their new addition because of his importance (strategy, strategy). Unluckily, the students were capable of spreading the news faster than an announcement ever could, and Snape had barely exerted any effort to oust the boy-who-lived.

Harry watched this phenomenon with a bemused awe, and decided to settle down and eat his dinner without blowing up at the man. From his seat, he could see Ron giving him a puzzled, slightly betrayed glare. Ginny was beside him and listening to the bushy-haired one speak quickly about the latest developments. Harry tilted his head in Snape's direction to get his attention.

"Please refrain from using my name in such _public _places, professor. I don't need unnecessary well-wishes from the Wizarding World because someone talked to the newspapers. As unavoidable as it undoubtedly is," Harry sighed and gave him a sideways glance, "I would prefer a few days to prepare for the onslaught."

"Don't presume-" the man started, but Dumbledore interrupted swiftly.

"A little more tact, Severus," he said kindly. "Though there was no chance Harry's presence here would remain a secret, I had hoped for an interim ignorance in which we could indeed, 'prepare for the onslaught'." He pushed a sprout around on his plate and sighed gently, "Well, I suppose the cat is among the pixies now," he commiserated.

Harry frowned at his own plate. "What a ridiculous metaphor."

Dumbledore chewed happily with a smile, and Snape grunted in reluctant agreement.

.o00o.

The password for Gryffindor Tower was "courage in strength, strength in courage" and Harry raised his eyebrows as he said it. He briefly mourned such allowances for recklessness (misunderstood, often, as courage) and stepped through the portrait and into the common room. The bushy-haired girl was talking furiously to Ron, Ginny, and a chubby boy by the fire. Harry wondered if the girl ever stopped talking.

He walked over to them and the girl went silent as he stopped in front of the group. Harry faced Ron who wasn't looking at him.

"Ron," he said to get the boy's attention, and Ron shot up from his seat. The bushy-haired girl scowled, knowing now that the redhead hadn't been paying attention to her diatribe at all.

"Chris," Ron said, before he glared and went red. "Or not Chris at all, am I right, _mate_?" he said harshly.

"Maybe we could go somewhere private and…" He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "And I can explain."

Surprisingly, Ron looked eager to do this. "Fine. Good. Right," he stopped when the bushy-haired girl cleared her throat. "Can Hermione come, too?" he asked hesitantly.

"So _you're_ Hermione," Harry said, and leaned forward and shook her hand. He grinned at Ron very suddenly. "Ron," he began teasingly. "You got lucky here. What's a beautiful girl like this hanging around the likes of you for?"

Ron glared a bit humorlessly, and Hermione blushed.

"Fortune favors the bold, I suppose," Hermione said with an air of wit. "I took pity on his somewhat floundering attraction and gave him a chance. Needless to say," she took his hand and patted it when Ron looked upset. "I made a good choice."

Harry smiled at her, and with a whistle and a nudge to Ron, he said, "And intelligent too? What spell did you use, Ron?"

"Lay off, will you?"

Ginny giggled.

"Shall we?" he motioned, and Ron and Hermione led them out of the common room. Ginny followed with a grin at him, and he stopped briefly to turn to the chubby one still sitting on the sofa. "Well? Come on then," Harry hustled him.

"Uh, well, I-"

"You were at the department that night," he stated matter-of-factly. "Or am I mistaken?"

"N-no-," the boy stuttered.

Harry very nearly lifted him up from his seat. "C'mon, on the double," he said.

They walked quickly to catch up, because Harry had no idea where they were going. The chubby boy panted heavily from beside him. "I'm, I-" he seemed to catch his breath, or his courage, or both and said finally, "I'm Neville."

Harry reached over and shook his hand while walking. "A pleasure. Who was the blonde girl?"

"At the department?" Neville asked with a frown. "Oh, that was Luna."

"Everyone made it out alright, then?"

"Yeah," Neville affirmed, and then shrugged. "Thanks to you."

Harry turned to Neville and smiled rather briefly. "Ah, well, I had business to take care of in the department anyway, but once I realized Ron was there…" He tilted his head and lifted a shoulder.

"They haven't told me much," Neville said. "How do you know Ron?" They climbed up a set of stairs.

"His family has helped me quite a few times. They're the best goddamn people in the bloody world and I love them. Which is quite the accolade, I'll have you know," he told Neville with a grin. "I find most people completely intolerable."

This Neville person was so insecure that he only said, "Oh," and then proceeded to wither like a dying flower. Harry raised his eyebrows and turned to him at the top of the staircase.

"It took a lot of courage to go to the department that night. I find it admirable, and if I'm guessing right, the reason was Arthur Weasley." He waited for Neville's nod to say, "Which makes you even more worthy of praise in my eyes." Harry patted the boy on the back. "Thanks for protecting my family."

Neville blushed so hard it had to have hurt, and Harry grinned as they resumed their quick strides until they caught up with the rest of the group. They stopped in front of a rather unassuming wall that Harry could tell had a fair bit more magic behind it than, say, _other _normal walls in the school.

"Curious," he said, and they turned to stare at him. "A secret room?" he touched the stone, and it melted away much like the entrance to Diagon Alley. "Curious," he said again.

Hermione was too busy gaping at him to go in, so Harry led the way into the Room of Requirement. The place was furnished like the Weasleys' sitting room, and Ron halted at the door and stared. "You remember it so well?" he asked Harry.

"I don't think I could forget," Harry told him, sitting down and smiling. Ron came into the room far enough so that the entrance closed, and simply stood and watched Harry in calm resignation.

"Why didn't you tell us?" he choked out in a whisper.

Harry leaned back in his seat and stared into his friend's eyes. He began his tale with the intention of telling as much of the truth as possible. Unfortunately, as bound as he was, Harry knew there would be very little honesty with Ron and Ginny. With his family - the only people that needed honesty truly mattered to.

.o00o.

Though Henry had told Dumbledore he would not be bound to the grounds of Hogwarts (or Scotland in general), he made sure the old man wasn't paying attention, and then he was out of the school with the goal of visiting a few people. He told Ron that he would be back before dinner, and set out at dawn with a hastily prepared Portkey. After one mishap with a false coordinate that dropped him right in the middle of a herd of sheep, Henry managed to adjust the Portkey again and finally land in New York.

"I need your help," he said without preamble, looking innocent. Agent Donnelly finished the rest of his hotdog, likely a late lunch, and glared at him.

"I've agreed not to touch McAllister, and now you want _more_?" Donnelly said before turning to Monroe and jutting a thumb at Harry, as if to say, '_this _guy'. "Demanding, isn't he?"

Henry waited patiently as the banter continued, until Donnelly realized he wasn't budging and muttered something unintelligible before giving in. "What do you want?" he asked.

"I need you to look up a name for me," Henry told them. "Ammon. He'll probably be tagged as a person of interest in your files. Or his alias anyway."

"Description?" Marks called out.

"I don't have one."

"His real name?" Monroe asked. "Besides the fake one?"

"Don't have one."

"Associates?"

Henry scratched his head. "Um, everyone?" he hedged.

Marks took his fingers off of his keyboard and grinned. "You're shit out of luck, Brooks. I can't find your guy without at least some information."

"Then look at the files on known assassins before the end of the decade, or better yet," he stopped and thought for a moment. "You had a profile on the man that attacked the diner, yeah?"

The file was brought up, and Marks pointed to the name. "Fritz Keslar, German citizen and possibly deranged."

"And absolutely deceased," Henry corrected, and at Donnelly's scowl he snapped defensively, "The man attacked me, while I was having a fucking cup of coffee. If it had been tea I would have dragged his death out and waved around his bollocks to prevent anyone else from interrupting my breakfast. But that's besides the point because I didn't kill the tit, he committed suicide before I could question him."

"You're touchy today!" Donnelly shouted at him.

"You would be too if you had to go to _school_!"

While Donnelly was laughing and pointing at him, Monroe turned to Marks and decided to get back down to business. "Known associates?" she asked.

"A guy by the name of Juda Kyler," he read off the supposed contacts of the assassin. "Cousin, deceased. Laura Lee Lafouse, wife. Deceased. Augustus Zabini-"

Henry blinked. "Look up Zabini," he said quickly.

"Sure thing," Mark's fingers flew across the keys. "Augustus Zabini," he read off casually. "Citizen of England, drug trafficking, murder, yadda yadda - oh, boy. Get _this_! MCS76 known pardoned informant…ha! There's your lead, Brooks."

Nodding, Henry moved closer to take a look at the profile. "He's a wizard. Interesting." Stepping back, he lit a cigarette despite the scowls of the FBI. "An address? Anything?" Henry pushed.

"Nope," Marks swung his chair around to look at him with sorry eyes. "But you have a lead. I'm guessing this 'Ammon' character was the one who ordered a hit on you. Fritz probably worked for him, yeah?"

"In all probability? Yes," Henry confirmed and took a deep drag. "Funny it should be him again."

"Know this Zabini, do you?" Donnelly asked, though he delivered the question as though he were being tortured into doing it. Monroe gave him a sharp look.

"I know of him," Henry only said, and moved towards the van door. "Thanks for the help," he told them sincerely.

"Yeah, yeah," Donnelly waved him out.

Henry stopped at the open door and turned back to them, looking thoughtful. "You know," he said lightly. "You may want to think about getting a less conspicuous vehicle to ride around in." He tapped the white frame. "It's not very incognito, if you know what I mean."

"Get out of here if you're going to insult the van!" Donnelly howled. "Out, out!"

The door closed behind him and Henry rolled his eyes before smoothing down his jacket. He turned around, only to come face to face with John McKay. Or McKay's gun, to be precise. Henry faced the barrel and marveled at John's everyday ease with firearms. The man probably used a Desert Eagle to shave.

"What were you doing in there?" John asked curiously, scratching at the stubble on his chin. "Making nice with the Feds still, Sparky? I thought that was a joke."

"John," Henry smiled and threw his arm around John's shoulders. "It's good to see you mate!"

McKay pointed at the van with his pistol. "Suspicious, Sparky, real suspicious."

Henry put his finger in the barrel and laughed at John's frown. He lead the man away, saying, "Let's go talk to Frankie, you old fucker."

.o00o.

Around lunchtime, Ron began to fidget nervously. Hermione watched him with cautious eyes, knowing his discomfiture was caused by the absence of Harry Potter, Ron's supposed best friend. She was never one to distrust upon first meeting with someone, but there was something about this Chris, or Harry Potter apparently, that seemed off to her.

Whenever he was around, Hermione felt afraid for some indiscernible reason. Afraid for herself and for the students, and she could not put her finger on why it was so. Harry seemed to arouse discomfort in others besides herself, as well. When she had glimpsed him eating beside Professor Snape, the man had a pinched look about him that Hermione recognized as resentment, and a fair amount of anxiety. She knew that look because Snape ritually gave her the same stare. Hermione wondered how Ron and Ginny could not sense ill-will in Harry, and she vowed to unravel the mystery of the boy that was very near a brother to her boyfriend. For her sake. For Ron's sake.

Despite the assurances that Harry wasn't at all a bad person, Hermione thought the boy in question could not possibly fit into the good or bad categories. Nothing was so black and white. Ron had tried to say that Hermione should pity Harry for his harsh life, but any pity she felt for a street kid was overshadowed by the young man Harry was now. A self-important, highly capable you man.

Hermione didn't know what sort of bad companions Harry had gotten in with to get off of the streets. There was infinitely more to that boy than those innocently beautiful eyes and that pretty face. The knowledge of his past made her fingers twitch for answers, for honesty, and Hermione was know for not accepting anything less than the truth.

.o00o.

"So this guy, Ammon or whatever, he's keeping Denny incarcerated?"

"Yes," Henry insisted, and McKay sat beside him, grumbling. "What's the problem, John?"

"Is this you assuming it's the MG or do you _know_ it's them?" John spoke up, and despite how irate the question could probably get Henry, he had the balls to ask it anyway.

"Dex tipped me off about the Mercenaries Guild, McKay. He blabbed out their meddling with Denny. Now I have a known member of them, who just so happened to be a contact that betrayed us back in England? Who shows up _now_, associated with the man at the diner? It was them, and despite it being an assumption, it's a damn good one."

"I guess," McKay said reluctantly.

Frank chose to ignore it, and turned back to Henry. "So?" he asked, waiting for the lad's attention. "What do we do now?"

Henry sighed. "Nothing," he said shortly. "You can stay safe. You can work on Rashidi and Choi."

"What if they don't bite?"

"Fuck," Henry cursed very suddenly. "Give me a glass of whatever you're drinking, alright?"

Frank gave him the beverage obligingly.

"Rashidi is the biggest heroin trafficker for the western world," he explained after the warmth of the alcohol calmed him. "We need his cooperation. Choi has most of the West coast at his fingertips. Bring your fucking country together. They'll fucking bite, Frankie, because that much power can never quite be sated."

"You're right," Frank agreed, sitting down heavily. "I know you're right. I've spoken with Choi, and he's near agreement." He sat forward. "He's heard about Van Rued, Cordero and Torres, and he knows a threat when he sees one."

"Rashidi is harder," John spoke up carefully. "He'll hear about it through the grapevine but he's far enough away to ignore it."

Henry thought for a moment, letting the smoke from his cigarette pool in his lungs before he let it go with a deep sigh. "Get an envoy out there," he said. "Make sure he knows who he'll be dealing with."

They were silent for a time, and then Frank asked, "Who _is _he dealing with? Me or you?"

Smiling, Henry stubbed out his smoke and ruffled Frank's hair. "Both," he answered, moving towards the door, and under his breath he whispered, "If you can handle it."


	18. Chapter Seventeen

A/N: Thanks to everyone for reviewing and putting this story on their alerts! I love you all. Go Lakers, England plays today, and by god there's no doubt some kind of party going on this weekend. We should have some fun. Hope you enjoy this next chapter as much as I adored writing it.

Dedication: to Amazonia, per usual, for being a wonderful and forever friend. How I adore her. To Artest for not sucking in the fourth, and to Dime for looking this over even though she's sick. Get well soon!

Warnings for this chapter: violence, language, slash, and immoral stuff. Per usual.

* * *

Pistol Whipped

Chapter Seventeen

Severus Snape sometimes said things he shouldn't. After a week with the man across from his guest rooms in the dungeons, beside him at dinner, and generally skulking about the school like a pissed off bat, Harry had come to a few conclusions about the Potions master. One of which was that the man did not like him, or rather he did not like anyone or anything. A special kind of hatred was reserved for Harry, however, and being who he was and also irrevocably audacious, he could not help but try and rile the professor into a rage. The man was in need of a good fuck, if his attitude was anything to go by, and though Harry had offered, Snape had refused with a vehemence that may have been insulting had Harry been unsure of himself.

Snape harbored an intense and archaic odium towards James Potter, whom Harry could accept no responsibility for, never having met the supposedly pompous and bullying man. The fact that a very capable man such as Severus Snape truly held a grudge about schoolboy belittling seemed odd to Harry. He speculated that there was more of a story to Snape's woes, but he didn't have the time nor the compassion to ask. Harry settled for trying to goad it out of him.

The last and perhaps the most important observation, was that when Snape was frustrated or anywhere near Harry, his mouth tended to run away from him and unfortunately, not in the sexual sense. Snape's big mouth lead to where Harry found himself now, politely refusing potion laced tea (to calm him, no doubt) from Hogwarts's venerable Headmaster.

"You declined to mention that I had other relations besides my Aunt," he said gently. Dumbledore looked taken aback despite how unruffled Harry was, and rushed to placate him. "It was disconcerting that Professor Snape had to insult this godfather of mine for me to know that I had one."

"I did not want to bring up the subject of your relatives at all, and I was hoping, perhaps, you would not think ill of Petunia Dursley and her family upon my telling you of your godfather."

Harry frowned. "I harbor no ill feeling towards my Aunt and Uncle, sir," he confessed shortly.

"You do not?" Dumbledore choked out, surprised eyebrows rising. Albus was at quite a loss as to what to say after that admission.

"I do not," Harry assured him. "They were not the most loving guardians, but for the time they took on the task I was not in a position to truly hate them."

Perhaps the headmaster had trouble accepting this because the Dursleys had abandoned him in the middle of London, with bruises to boot and a near broken arm. But then Harry doubted Dumbledore even knew that much.

"They disliked me greatly," he went on when the headmaster remained silent. "But the feeling was one that I accepted and once it was mutual we had very little to hold us together. I dislike them as people, surely, but I do not hate them."

"Well, then," Dumbledore said cheerfully, trying and failing to hide his alarm at Harry's opinion on the people who had treated him so terribly. "Sirius is a wonderful fellow, however reckless and unthinking Professor Snape may think he is. I gather you will like him very much."

"I'm sure," Harry responded curtly. He uncrossed his legs and crossed them again, looking at Dumbledore keenly.

No matter how tolerable Sirius Black was, the man had spent thirteen years in Azkaban, which can't have been a walk in the park for the man's mentality. The headmaster seemed to be ignoring the bird Black had done, as an attempt to brush over the guilt he felt for putting an innocent man in prison, or simply because Dumbledore chose to find the good in people even with all of the bad. It was a cute sort of belief, but almost entirely flawed.

"I suppose you would rather let me meet him at this Order meeting you mentioned earlier," Harry suggested with a smile.

"Yes, well," Dumbledore waved a hand. "I am pleased that you are prepared, and that you have received the news so splendidly." The old man cleared his throat and stared at Harry with tender dismay. "I apologize, Harry, for not informing you sooner."

Harry inclined his head in forgiveness. "Am I right to assume it won't happen again?" he asked good-naturedly. "I do so like to be well-versed in things that directly effect me. You understand, sir."

The headmaster blinked. "Of course, my boy," he agreed tightly.

"Good," Harry beamed, rising from his seat to bestow Dumbledore with a half-bow. "As always, sir, it was a pleasure speaking with you."

When the door to his office closed, Albus remained still in his seat and rather numb. His jaw twitched, as from behind him Phineas Nigellus cackled gleefully.

"Buck up, Albus," Phineas said. "I do believe young Potter is quite disappointed in you."

As the portrait went on about Harry's eventual sorting into the house of snakes (Phineas was surprised and proud to say), Dumbledore unclenched his teeth and stared avidly at the closed door.

He had no delusions about who had been in charge during their conversation, and the revelation of Harry's talented ability to overpower him (at least verbally) was a shock to the old man. A deep-seated resentment suddenly flared in his chest, and he choked it down and saved the animosity for later. Much later. Harry made him feel entirely out of his element, and Albus Dumbledore _did not _like that.

Phineas's blathering was cut short when Dumbledore snapped, "That will be enough, I think."

.o00o.

Number twelve Grimmauld place was a decrepit ninth hell. Harry could feel the residual dark magic positively drip from the house, captured in various spots by trinkets and cursed portraits. He felt the locket before he walked through the door.

Dumbledore and Snape remained by his side, and even if the thought of escape from the malevolent house were in his head, they would surely impede his return to the castle. With the presence of the Horcrux, Harry was anxious to leave with it in his clutches. Safe and found rather accidentally. The feelings the soul invoked made his fingers twitch, for a fight or to kill, he didn't know. His footsteps quickened behind Snape as they skulked along the hallway that boasted the heads of previous house elves loyal to the House of Black. Harry cracked his neck.

"Where's the fire, Potter?" Snape snarled at him as he passed.

Harry slowed down to slide next to the man and gave him his best grin. "We should have a tumble one of these days," he suggested.

"I _beg _your pardon?"

"_You know_," Harry told him, moving closer. "A rousing good shag, create our own sort of fire. You can do what you want to me and I'm sure I'll _love _it," he paused and bit his lip. "It might to do your surly disposition some good."

He left Snape standing there sputtering and followed the headmaster (who had obviously heard Harry provoking Snape, and seemed to find it amusing) into a room that Harry supposed used to be a kitchen. It looked more like a conference room instead.

"Ah, yes. Hello, hello," Dumbledore greeted the assembled people cheerfully. "Everyone is here? Good."

Harry caught sight of bright red hair before the clatter of pots and pans hitting the table harshly made him look at a man who had obviously seen a better decade. There were smile lines around his eyes and mouth, but the gauntness of his face told of a long struggle with personal demons. _This must be Sirius Black_, Harry thought, and he watched the man who was frozen over the scattered kitchenware he had dropped.

"Chrissie?" He barely acknowledged the voice of Molly Weasley before she had him in a suffocating hug. "It _is _you! Oh, Chrissie!"

Beside them, Dumbledore remained silent with undisguised interest, and Harry gave him a chiding look over Molly's shoulder. The headmaster had tried to get Ron and Ginny to explain how they knew Harry, but the two had been closed mouthed about it for Harry's sake. They obviously hadn't written to their parents about his arrival at Hogwarts, however, which would have made this meeting less awkward. Harry would have no choice to explain himself now, and though he wasn't angry with Molly, he _was _quite annoyed with Dumbledore. The man had all the makings of a tragic death.

"Mrs. Weasley," he greeted her very fondly, pulling back to stare into her face. "How are you?"

"Me? Me, dear? I'm very well! Arthur!" she called her husband and then turned back to look at Harry closely. "Oh, you're more beautiful every day, dear, just lovely," she complimented, patting his cheek.

Mr. Weasley came forward and gave him a hug that was just as warm, if not more so than his wife. Harry whispered in his ear, "You didn't know."

Arthur answered back under his breath, "No idea," and drew away from Harry gently.

"Well," Dumbledore suddenly interjected. "It seems a few of us already know Mr. Potter."

There was instantly a dissonance of questions all at once. "Potter? _The _Potter?"

"I thought he was dead!"

"_That's _Harry Potter? _That _bloke right there?"

"What? What did he say?"

"Yeah, but is _that the _Potter?"

"Do you know any other, Fletcher?"

"So, he's not dead?"

They were interrupted by a person very able to trounce them all in terms of volume, and Molly's voice was quite successful in silencing the rest, for which Harry was thankful.

"You never told me!" she shouted at him, and he cringed. She suddenly smacked him upside the head and hollered, "Why didn't you tell me?"

Harry covered his ears and lifted his shoulders to shield his neck. "Ma'am-" he started, but she was yelling and pacing and looking ready to swat him again.

"All this time you were here and I didn't know!" she whipped around to glare at her husband, who stood next to Harry with a look on his face that said he had been perfectly happy staying out of it. "And you!" she pointed to him. "You should have known it was him! You should have let me keep him!"

"That will be quite enough, Molly," Dumbledore said to her somewhat harshly. Mrs. Weasley bristled, but seeing Dumbledore's chastising glare seemed to shame her. Harry felt rage suddenly rear up inside of him, and he turned to Dumbledore quickly.

"_Excuse me_," Harry said to the headmaster coldly, who looked at him with innocent surprise. "If Mrs. Weasley wants to fucking yell at me, sir, she can fucking yell at me. Whatever kind of authority you think you have, does not include disrespecting Mrs. Weasley. I'll thank you to remember that."

Absolute silence.

And then of course, the ever useful Severus Snape. "Watch your language, Potter," he bit out, and Harry raised an eyebrow at him.

"Watch your cock, Snape," he said with a grin. "I'm out for it."

"_Chrissie_," Mrs. Weasley admonished him, and he turned to her apologetically.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," he said, looking into her eyes. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you who I was, and I'm sorry I said fuck in front of Snape."

She bit back a laugh. "There's nothing to be sorry for dear," she smiled and took his hands to draw him closer once again. "Let me look at you," Molly breathed in admiration and said to him sweetly, "The years since we've last seen each other have been good to you. Look at how well you've turned out! So lovely."

"Perhaps we could be seated?" Dumbledore interrupted them, much more kindly after the cold dressing down by Harry. "We have a meeting to begin, after all."

"Chrissie can't be here, he's too young," Molly said as they sat. "Oh, I mean Harry," she corrected herself quietly.

"Whatever you want to call me, ma'am, is fine," Harry reassured her with a smile.

"I'm afraid Harry must be present for this gathering," Dumbledore said, and his words were sharp enough to broach no argument. Harry crossed his legs and looked at Dumbledore expectantly, but the man would not meet his eyes.

They finally managed to begin, and Harry listened to the various reports on the Dark Lord's doings with half a brain. Sirius Black did not seem to want to stop staring at him, and along with the prevalent dark magic running through Grimmauld place it served to make him twitchy with nervousness. He quickly bottled the emotion, storing it away so that he would not appear to be distressed while speaking with the Order. His magic extended, and retracted, and Harry took a deep breath and was finally, blessedly calm.

"I'm afraid I must now ask how you know Harry," Dumbledore said after the reports had finished. "Arthur," he nodded, "Molly."

Mrs. Weasley hesitated. "Well, Chrissie would stay with us some winters, Albus," she confessed, casting a quick look at her husband.

"Ah," the headmaster said, motioning for Molly to go on. But Mrs. Weasley was ignoring him now, in favor of twiddling her napkin. Arthur looked at her worriedly.

Dumbledore gave up on Mrs. Weasley and turned to Harry. "Perhaps, Harry, if it's not too much trouble, would you enlighten us with some information about yourself?"

Harry realized that Dumbledore had been waiting for the meeting to ensure that the story need not be repeated. An act of trust for the Order members, but an annoyance to Harry, who would rather his business remain private. Dumbledore was a crafty leader, Harry would give him that much, and his ability to make people love him was not as impressive as Harry had thought, if all he had to do was exploit another to appease the group. Crafty old man, indeed.

"Mrs. Weasley is correct," he said with small smile. "I would spend every winter with them as a child."

"Is it true you were abandoned in London?" a girl with bright pink hair blurted out.

"Nymphadora!"

"Tonks, honestly!"

Harry grinned. "Oh, it's alright," he said to the objectors, who quieted. "I lived on the streets then, and one day Mrs. Weasley found me sleeping in his shed just as it turned cold for the winter. I was lucky that day," Harry finished, giving Arthur a fond smile.

Molly, however, looked near tears. "He was a sad sight, he was," she said waveringly.

"You know I did well for myself, ma'am," Harry comforted her, though she did not stop her slight sniffles. "London was as good a place as any to steal. I wouldn't have survived the winter outside though, if the Weasleys hadn't taken me in."

Mrs. Weasley blew her nose with her napkin. "I should have kept you here," she said around her hiccups, and Harry thought he heard Snape give a low groan. "I would have wanted better for you."

After casting a glare at Snape, which caused the left side of the room to grimace and Snape to freeze, Harry put a hand on her shoulder and hugged her a bit. It was awkwardly done. "It did get better, ma'am," he said to her. "Remember? A man adopted me. A Muggle."

There was quite a ruckus at that, and Dumbledore held up a hand for silence. Harry nodded at him in thanks and then began to explain. After he had finished a good chunk of his severely edited story, he accepted a cup of tea from Molly and sat back to allow Dumbledore to ask his questions.

"Denny took care of me after that, until he wasn't able, and I left for New York," he said simply when someone asked why his adoptive father wasn't around.

"Did he, er," Black suddenly spoke, his eyes on Harry and his Adam's apple quivering as he gulped down the tea Molly had given him. "Was he good to you?" the man finally choked out.

Harry tilted his head to the side and gave a short nod and a small smile. "He was great," he answered, but his voice had sounded sad there at the end and Harry cleared his throat quickly.

Black remained silent and his gaze was finally averted when the man next to him whispered something to him rapidly. Harry started at the familiar face amongst mostly strangers, and sensing his stare, Lupin turned toward him. The look in his eyes was not recognition, and there wouldn't be because Harry had _Obliviated _the man. Lupin seemed hopeful for something however, perhaps to get to know the son of his best friends? As he had wanted so long ago when Harry had first joined Tyler and Denny? He didn't want to think of that now, so Harry shook the memory away and ignored Lupin. For now.

"While in New York," Dumbledore was saying. "I came across a peculiar sort of group. Hit Wizards, I believe they are called," he paused and inclined his head in Harry's direction. "Do you know much about them, Harry?"

"You ran across them?" Harry asked, sounding skeptical. It wasn't very often you _ran across_ wizards paid by the government to kill other wizards. "When was this?"

Dumbledore looked oddly contrite. "I followed your signature to the mansion, they were there doing some kind of investigation," the old man admitted, _to nothing_, Harry knew.

He stared at Dumbledore shrewdly, aware of what he knew and satisfied with it. If anything, it would make the often kind and altruistic headmaster think more of the boy he had supposedly found.

"They're a sector of the American government," Harry said at length. "MCS76, an acronym for Magical Control Sector. They're a bit like our Aurors but without the leash to the Minister."

"Dang'rous bunch," the scruffy man said with a short nod to Harry. "More like Death Eaters, if yer askin' me."

Thinking it was no little sad that the man thought the bases of good and bad were Death Easters and Aurors, Harry turned back to Dumbledore patiently. "They don't stray out of the states. Much less Britain's jurisdiction," he said, knowing what Albus was gearing up to ask next.

"Ah, I had hoped we would be able to recruit some of these talented wizards to the war effort," the headmaster sighed, then. "I have tried without success to inform the president of the deleterious return on the Dark Lord."

Harry almost laughed, but managed to keep a straight face as he said, "I don't think that's possible, sir."

"Yes, well," Dumbledore looked much like a happy loser then. "It was a thought. Tell them also Harry, about the Department of Mysteries," he pushed cheerfully, and when Harry merely gave him an unimpressed stare Dumbledore answered his own demand. "It was Harry that night, who came to the aid of my students at the Ministry."

"I put a charm of sorts on the Weasleys, to tell me should they be in any sort of trouble," he explained before the question was asked. Harry turned to Molly and smiled, "I got the idea from your clock," he said.

Mrs. Weasley folded her arm into his and nudged him with her shoulder. "Thank you, Chrissie," she said joyfully. "You saved my Arthur's life that night."

Snape groaned again, likely near death from the overwhelming sentimentality before him. Harry glanced at him with a tight, amused smile, and Dumbledore chose that moment to speak up.

"We are grateful for Harry's quick save that night," the old man said with twinkling eyes. "From this point on, Mr. Potter will be a member of the Order. I trust we are all in agreement on this matter, and that he will be treated kindly."

"You _ca__nn__ot _be serious," Snape snapped, before anyone else could object.

Harry grinned at him and jutted a thumb towards Sirius. "Wrong man, Professor. You losing your eyesight already?" he clucked his tongue and nudged Mrs. Weasley. "Old age just doesn't agree with some," he teased.

Black laughed loudly, and surprisingly, so did Lupin. Snape looked so angry then that Harry wondered if the man was going to curse him. He took a moment to observe Black, who seemed all too happy with Harry's attention. Though he did not cherish that sort of attribute (meaning the seeking of acceptance from others) in people, Harry was willing to let the hope in Black's eyes slide. He was, after all, still addled from his stay in Azkaban and according to Dumbledore, still very much in love with the Potter family.

Harry's stare traveled around the table, and he held back a disappointed sigh. Such fighters of evil that would so amiably allow evil among them, he observed. It looked as though much of his work would have to be done without the help of the celebrated Order of the Phoenix.

.o00o.

"Well?"

Harry put a ridiculous amount of sprouts onto his plate.

"_Well_," he mimicked Ron's tone, and went for the gravy.

"Well!"

He gave up and put his cutlery down, turning to address the impatient redhead. "Well what?" he asked.

"What happened at the meeting!" Ron nearly shouted, and Hermione shushed him quickly.

"Now is _not _the time to talk about this," Hermione reminded them, as if they didn't know.

"Oh, that's alright," Harry said, waving his fork at her. "I told them about me getting adopted, and about your parents helping me out, Ron. I met the bloke they say is my godfather," he took a drink, and grimaced at the taste. Pumpkin Juice of all things….

"Met Snuffles, have you?" Ron exclaimed. "He's a laugh. How'd you like him?"

"Pardon, who?"

Ron scratched his head. "That's what we call him," he answered as if Harry had chastised him. "On account of his being a dog Animagus, and all."

"I'm going to pretend that makes sense," Harry told him. He took a bite of his food, chewed, and then swallowed. "I like him well enough," he said.

"Suppose he can tell you a bit about your parents," Ron went on while shoving mashes into his mouth. "He was good friends with them, I hear. Was Professor Lupin there, as well?"

"Professor?" Harry asked a little wearily. Ron was just so exuberant, and Harry wasn't, at least not at the moment.

Hermione leaned closer to them. "He was our teacher for Defense Against the Dark Arts in third year," she said.

"Best one yet, I'd say," Ron added.

Knowing very well that Lupin was rather a good teacher, Harry returned to his sprouts as Hermione listed off the qualities of her favorite teachers. A boring sort of sermon, no mistake.

"Potter," said someone from behind him, and Harry turned around and raised an eyebrow at Snape.

"You're supposed to be at the head table, Potter," Snape said, scowling as was usual. "You are not a student." The man's black eyes glared at Ron and Hermione as they froze under Snape's unrelenting glower.

"Neither am I a teacher, if you want to be technical," Harry cheeked, watching the heat rise in the potions master's pale face. "I'm almost done here anyway," he said innocently, and then added (just to be a berk), "Sir."

Snape flounced off with his expression set in a mask of fury, and once he had joined the other professors at the head table, Hermione turned to Harry with a scowl on her pretty face.

"You shouldn't disrespect the teachers!" she whispered harshly.

"C'mon, Hermione," Ron argued immediately. "He's a git to all of us."

"But he's a _teacher_!" she snapped. "Even though he's sour to anyone not in Slytherin he still demands respect based on his position as a professor at this school!"

Harry looked at her in interest. "I wasn't aware I was being discourteous to Professor Snape," he lied. "I'll be sure to apologize to him for the affront." He turned to Ron then and raised an eyebrow. "Miss Hermione is quite right Ron, his position requires respect and admiration of the highest order. No matter how surly his disposition."

Ron gaped, but Hermione merely grinded her teeth. "There's no need to mock me," she snarled. "I'm smart enough to know when I'm being insulted!"

As she grabbed up her books and stormed off, Ginny gave him an admonishing look that he answered with an apologetic shrug. Ron wasn't sure what had happened at all, and merely went back to his dinner muttering about 'that time of the month'. Before Ginny could attack him for that provocative comment, her eyes flickered above Harry's head and settled on the person standing behind him.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" she asked sharply, crossing her arms over her chest.

Harry swung one leg around the bench to face the person that Ginny and Ron obviously didn't like and took a look at the boy who had followed Professor Snape into the Great Hall. He felt his body tense in appreciation of the figure before him.

This Malfoy fellow was tall, blond, and lean beneath the suit he was wearing so magnificently. The tailoring, Harry noticed, had very little to do with how the suit fit. His eyes traveled until they met the grey-blue of the boy, and Harry felt a slow smile stretch across his face. Malfoy stared at him unabashedly, and he leaned against the table a little more so that the blond could run his gaze down Harry in return.

"What do you _want_, Malfoy?" Ron demanded this time, clearly impatient with the Slytherin's lingering.

"N-" Malfoy cleared his throat. "Nothing," he said, and his voice was smooth and altogether lovely despite how dumbstruck he seemed to be in Harry's presence. Malfoy's consolation was that Harry felt as if he may swoon as well.

Pulling himself together, the blond snapped at Ron, "Mind your own business, Weasel!" and walked off to his own table. Harry admired the lifted chin and steady gait as he left.

Ron waved a dismissive hand at the other boy's back and turned back to his food with a grumble. Harry caught Malfoy staring from across the room and he fought to hide a smile.

"Are you planning on going to classes, Chris?" Ginny asked him. "I mean, Harry - sorry," she corrected herself.

Harry didn't bother telling her that he didn't mind either name, because he was awful busy sneaking glances at Malfoy from beneath his eyelashes, who seemed to be quite hot around the collar and trying his best not to stare. He focused his attention on Ginny once again, but couldn't help watching the blond as he ate.

.o00o.

Frank could admit to himself, a bit self-deprecatingly, that he was overjoyed when Henry walked into his study. Being so happy to see the boy meant, simply, that Frank was ridiculously pathetic. Henry had a healthy flush to his cheeks, suggesting he had been rushing around and about the world again, and Frank felt his groin tighten at the soft smile he was gifted with. _Absolutely pathetic_.

"Where's McKay?" Henry asked, and Frank couldn't help the wave of irrational jealousy that swept over him. He tried in vain to shake it off.

"On a hit," Frank told him tightly. "Our liaison with Choi has decided to do an old switcheroo."

"Then you weren't paying him enough, you cheap bastard," Henry teased, but then sobered. "Any news on this Zabini bloke?"

"Fuck no," Frank said tiredly. He ran a hand across his face and poured them both a drink. "Wherever he is, he's got some good friends. No one's talking."

Henry lit a smoke and raised his glass of sherry at Frank in thanks. "Unfortunate, because there's no word on my side either. I had the goblins check for Zabini and this elusive Ammon," he sighed. "I don't think Augustus Zabini is a wizard, Frankie. I think he's a squib."

"Do I need to know what that is?" Frank asked grumpily.

Henry crossed his legs and lifted a shoulder. "Not really," he said. "I was just thinking aloud."

"What about family members?" Frank suggested. "They could be in on whatever their relative is pulling."

"Griphook is on it at the moment," Henry nodded, blowing out a cloud of smoke. "But I have him checking for those accounts that may or may not be Ammon's."

"Good work," Frank said, and then blushed.

Henry laughed. "Thanks, boss," he teased, getting up and setting down his glass. Frank felt a sudden flash of anxiety at his move. _Leaving already?_ he thought, and had to make sure he hadn't spoken out loud. There was no limit to how pathetic he could truly be around Henry Brooks, it seemed.

As usual, and Frank was ridiculously thankful Henry was constant, the boy strolled over and deposited himself in front of his boss. "Need anything before I disappear for awhile?" Henry asked mischievously.

Frank couldn't help but smile. "You left me in good hands. I had an interesting talk with that Fed the other day," he said, and before he could think too much about it, Frank reached out and ran a hand down Henry's young, beautiful face. The lad closed his eyes beneath the caress, and then opened them again.

"Did you?" Henry pushed, but his sight was glazed by desire and interest. So green it made Frank abruptly nervous.

"Hmm. He wants me to tell you that since he's now, and I quote, 'a lapdog', he expects to be on the 'lapdog' payroll."

Henry laughed, delighted. "I'll send him a Christmas card," he joked, and then kissed Frank soundly on the mouth.

Mid thrust, not thirty minutes later, with Henry writhing sweetly beneath him, the door opened to his study and then closed with a sharp snap.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" they heard McKay yowl from outside, and Henry dissolved into laughter that wouldn't allow for either of them to climax. Hardly amused, Frank told McKay a few days later (when John finally answered his calls) that knocking wouldn't have gone amiss.

McKay's lip trembled, as he said in a slightly unhinged rush, "Boss, I'll knock on every fucking door in the world if it'll save me from seeing your hairy undulating ass again."

.o00o.

"Do you _realize_, you arrogant imbecile, that you cause an uproar every time you decide to leave the school? I suppose your little _jaunts_ into the Muggle world are perhaps _so _important you need not leave word behind that you shall return, no matter how disappointing the eventuality!"

Snape was following him all the way to his rooms from the Great Hall, where Harry had made an appearance at dinner. He had not stopped insulting Harry the entire way down to the dungeons. He gave the agitated man a wry glare.

"I'll speak with the headmaster, then," he said as casually as he could. "I was under the impression that Dumbledore knew of the pressing matters I left behind when I came to Hogwarts."

"_Apparently _not!" Snape snarled at him, and Harry couldn't help but grin. "Impertinent brat," the potions master said when he saw how amused the boy was.

When they reached Harry's rooms, Snape lingered as if he had something more to say. Before the man could get embarrassed and retreat to his own quarters, Harry raised a lecherous eyebrow and leaned forward.

"You coming in, then?" he asked. "You're most welcome, you know, professor."

Snape hesitated, and then scowled furiously. "Good _night_, Potter," he barked, before he left with a put-on flourish and strode back down the hall.

Harry laughed under his breath as he entered his rooms, very much looking forward to a full night's rest. Unfortunately, sleep was brushed from his mind when he saw the hooded crow perched atop his chair. It cawed at him, as if to admonish him for keeping it waiting, and Harry strode forward to take the parchment from its leg. While the pest of a bird drank from his water glass and pecked at stale bread from that morning, Harry unfolded the letter curiously and read the short message.

_Mr. Potter,_

_I'm afraid I was unaware of the change in our covenant. As you can imagine, I was quite alarmed when I heard of your arrival at Hogwarts nigh a week ago. _

_An explanation, if you will. _

_LV. _

Harry turned directly and gave the bird a grin. "Your master is a presumptuous fellow," he said to it.

Moving towards the desk, he retrieved a piece of parchment and a quill and placed one hand on the wood as he penned his response with the other.

_Meet me at Claridge__'__s in Mayfair. 8:00 p.m., tomorrow. Under Smith, if you please. _

_HP. _

He turned back to the disgruntled bird and motioned it forward. Flinching a bit as it squawked, he tied the letter on and smiled at it gently. He hated crows.

"Take this to him, will you?"

The bird ruffled its slick black feathers and Harry tapped it lightly on the head. "Don't be like that," he chastised. "I'm sure it's not very far, and he'll take care of you once you arrive. You're a fucker of a bird, aren't you?"

It cawed again and flew out of the open window, leaving black fluff behind. Finally, it seemed he would be able to relax. Harry collapsed into his chair by the fire and breathed in deeply.

He would have to speak with the headmaster about his leaving for the night tomorrow, given Snape's tirade on departing without notice. For now, Harry was quite pleased, and felt he deserved a peaceful slumber. He hoped the Dark Lord remained this predictable.

.o00o.

A long time ago, Harry had stood outside of this hotel, thinking not of his duty to his beliefs, the future and how he could change it, or of the Dark Lord he was about to rendezvous with. His mind had been on tomorrow's stolen shilling and yesterday's moldy bread. His mind had been on surviving.

With his hands deep in his pockets, Harry watched the people walking by him at various speeds, rushing to reach the underground and go home to their families. He admired the busy streets of London. He wondered why he had ever left.

Harry wasn't big on nostalgia, usually, but this hotel had certain memories associated with it that would never die. His life had started here, with Denny, with Tyler, with everything he was then and now - and he supposed it was beginning again, but at a different milestone than before. Shaking the recollections out of his head, the good and the bad, Harry made his way up the steps of Claridge's and took a deep breath.

He asked the receptionist for the room number, pleased that the Dark Lord could follow directions, and made his way up to the twelfth floor. Despite their unspoken agreement of no hostility, Harry kept a pistol in his pocket and a well of reserved magic ready inside of his core. Should the Dark Lord get in a tizzy about something, he would be prepared.

When he reached the room, he knocked briefly and the door swung open with enough force to tear it off. Harry appraised the man in front of him calmly.

"Mr. Potter," the man acknowledged, and Harry nodded. "It's a pleasure," he said, and from the way the man watched him it certainly, sincerely was. "Lucius Malfoy," he introduced.

Harry dipped his head in return, remembering him from a long time ago on a trip to Diagon Alley. Luckily for Malfoy, his name had been shoved down to the bottom of the list Harry kept of people to be disposed of. Years could do that to a hit list.

"I can see where your son gets his handsomeness," he ribbed, choosing not to remind Malfoy that they had met before.

"Yes, well," Lucius stuttered, and perhaps he was the only man in the world able to look elegant while in a stupor.

"Are you going to let me in, then?" he asked, eyebrow raised.

Lucius said nothing in response and opened the door wider to let him in. The Dark Lord sat at the standard hotel desk (a familiar one if Claridge's hadn't remodeled), looking impossibly dangerous inside such an unthreatening setting. Harry shifted, tacking the Death Eaters under the Disillusionment Charm at each corner of the room.

"Lord," he addressed the man. "Thank you for meeting me here."

The Dark Lord straightened. "An uncongenial place, no doubt," he said tightly, obviously displeased to be in a Muggle hotel.

"Perhaps we could speak in private?" Harry asked audaciously.

"Of course," the Dark Lord nodded, and then called to his companion. "Lucius, leave us," he snapped.

As the blond made for the door, Harry stared at Voldemort gravely. "And the others?" Harry said, gesturing to the hidden men vaguely as he removed his duffle coat.

Voldemort gazed at him shrewdly, his red eyes pensive. "I should not have underestimated you," he said, and motioned for the others to follow Malfoy out of the door. It closed, and they were alone.

"You haven't," Harry told him, rolling up his sleeves. "Do we trust each other, Lord?" he asked in a settled sort of tone.

"I would be a fool to do so, you realize."

Harry sat down on the cushioned chair, smiling. "As I would be. But you know, a part of your soul breathes within me, and I am inherently yours," he confessed.

Despite his words, Voldemort was not pleased. "You broke our agreement," he hissed in response.

"Dumbledore tracked my signature."

"Foolish," the Dark Lord snapped. "And what of the headmaster's," he paused to sneer at the title, "plans for _you_?"

Harry flushed a bit of his magic out, making his being known to the man across from him. "I am too anxious," he said. "Your power is intoxicating," he murmured and closed his eyes for a moment. "It's very hard to concentrate."

In return, the magic seeping from Harry made Voldemort blink and then nearly swoon. They released their familiarity bit by bit, until it evened out and began to settle. Harry breathed in deeply as the man gathered himself and glared.

"I don't trust you," the Dark Lord admitted callously, and one spidery hand held onto the desk to keep him upright. To keep him seated.

Harry knew the desire Voldemort felt because he felt it as well. The need to be complete, as the soul tried to gather its piece into the original foundation. _Intoxicating_ wasn't the half of it, and Harry's body again tried to reach for the wholeness the Dark Lord's magic promised. But he held back.

He held back because this man could drown him.

"It's mutual," he breathed, feeling his magic finally calm. Suddenly, the hold their connection had upon them went dormant, and Harry leaned back in his seat and licked his lips. Likewise, Voldemort seemed to be much more relaxed than before.

Harry lit a smoke and the world was abruptly right again.

"What a disgusting habit," the Dark Lord said without malice, which appeared to surprise him. Harry laughed at him and offered him a drink from the fridge. Voldemort did not decline.

"Dumbledore's ill, you know," Harry told him as they indulged in the rich red wine.

"I have heard rumors," Voldemort mentioned, taking a slow sip after it had breathed.

"He'll likely be dead by June," he said, placing his glass down. "He expects to find a way to destroy you before then. He doesn't know that I'm a part of you. That with my destruction, he will have yours."

"And you haven't told him, I presume."

Harry gave him a look. "My destruction is not something I aspire to," he answered, running a hand through his hair. When the Dark Lord remained silent, he asked rather musingly, "Tell me, was the plotting of your soul accidental?"

Red eyes watched the progress of his hands to his glass of wine. "Yes," Voldemort said. "You have ensured my immortality, Harry."

"And mine as well," Harry pointed out, crossing his legs. "You're lucky I'm a selfish bastard," he said irreverently. "You're lucky I hate death as much as you do."

"I am that," Voldemort commented, and chuckled a bit. Again, the Dark Lord blinked in surprise at the sudden display of sentiment, and Harry struggled not to laugh. He was glad he had gambled on letting out his magic, because the predicted benefits had been correct. A slightly drugged Dark Lord was better than a raging one.

"Dumbledore is very puzzled as to why you've been silent since the debacle at the Department," Harry mentioned. "I confess I am curious as well."

Voldemort narrowed his eyes, but his quick anger diminished as fast as it had come. "I have planned a raid rather soon, in fact. Perhaps you would like to join me?"

"Of course," Harry agreed without trouble. "I've been hoping for some bloodshed, after all."

The Dark Lord raised an eyebrow, but nodded all the same. He decided to answer Harry's question, thankfully enough. Harry didn't like to have to persuade.

"I have a plan at the moment, that is taking up much of my time," Voldemort confessed.

Harry's interested frown prompted the Dark Lord to explain. At the end of the short summary of Draco's task, Harry couldn't help but start to laugh.

"He won't succeed," the boy said, amused. "But then you don't really want him to, do you?"

Voldemort sneered. "You met Lucius," he said with a wave of his pale hand. "He failed at the Department that night, and a punishment of four months in Azkaban is hardly a punishment at all."

"So you'll make him pay through blood, will you?" Harry said, shaking his head as he took a sip of his drink. "You know," he said companionably. "When Draco fails, because I'm sure he will, how about I finish it for him?"

The Dark Lord lifted his chin, frowning lightly. "You would kill Dumbledore?" he queried, and thankfully did not sound as though he believed Harry couldn't.

Harry lifted a shoulder. "Albus Dumbledore believes it is his duty to perish for his cause," he explained wryly. "Who am I to stop him?"

"Does he know of the mission I have assigned the young Malfoy?" Voldemort asked, gathering his bearings after seeming so surprised that Harry would want Dumbledore dead in such a casual sense.

"I don't believe so," Harry told him. "I think it's best he doesn't know, don't you?"

He left the hotel feeling at ease, mostly because Voldemort seemed to be as well. The involuntary (and sometimes voluntary) sharing of power and the emotions that came with it was a bit strange to Harry, and familiar at the same time. He knew that the Dark Lord did not doubt him now, at least not about the war. He knew that they would never trust each other, and that they could both live with that. Harry had agreed to meet with him again, rather soon, and Voldemort had not tried to hide his pleasure.

They wanted each other. They did not trust each other. It would be enough.

As he walked down the lit cobblestones of Greater London, Harry grinned and strengthened the shields around his mind and his magic. His footsteps were sure on the stone, his body sedate and at rest, and Harry breathed in the cool night air and prepared to Apparate away.

.o00o.

"Is this a useful person?" Harry asked to no one in particular. Beside him, the Dark Lord bestowed upon him an amused look, and he smiled very slightly.

"What's your name?" he asked the boy, who can't have been thirteen. Despite the fear that made the boy's body tremble uncontrollably, he had quite the defiant look upon his face.

"Jason," he spat at Harry. "Where are my parents?"

Harry shook his head. "I imagine they're still in the house," he said casually. "Which happens to be burning at the moment. Oh no."

"_You_!" the lad made to lunge at him, but the Death Eaters held him back with altogether too much hilarity. "You _bastard_! I'll kill you! I'll kill you!"

Harry's eyebrows rose. "Well then, Jason, what's all this trouble about?" he walked forward. "Are you a useful person?" he repeated.

"I'm going to murder you! You-_you_-"

Diving into the helpless boy's mind was only too easy. The lad was a bit of a brat, grousing quite a lot, and in his memories his parents were kind and patient with him, but Jason seemed to be of the opinion that they were overbearing and ignorant. He moved through the ribbons of moving pictures, and stopped at one. Harry laughed.

"Fancy your sister, eh Jason!" he smirked. "And my, she _is _beautiful."

The boy's eyes widened in shock.

"I'm no one to judge," Harry said, kneeling down to speak with him. "But this is a bit sick, don't you think? Getting your jollies with a photo of dear Maggie, a bit touched," he whispered, tapping his head.

"How did you…how did you-" the boy struggled, breathing heavily as ash and smoke flew into the air. Some of it landed on his dark brown hair. "You're some kind of freak!"

Harry rose as the derogatory nonsense spewed from the boy's mouth. He shook his head sadly. "You aren't a useful person," he decided with a sigh.

He took out his pistol. "In fact, I think your parents were quite admirable, and we mustn't lie to each other, so I'll have you say it."

Harry dragged the boy forward by his hair. "Repeat after me," he said to the thrashing lad. "I should have died in place of my family, because I am not a useful person."

"Bugger off!" Jason shouted, twisting in the tight hold. Harry wrenched his head back painfully.

"You _will _sat it," he snapped in the boy's ear. "I hate lies more than I hate the truth. Now _say it._"

"I should have- I should have-"

"I should have died in place of my _family_," Harry recited again. "Because I am _not _a useful person."

The boy sputtered, the fear settling in when the pistol came in sight in Harry's left hand. Blubbering, Jason continued trying to wrench himself free as he spoke the words Harry had commanded him to. He released him, swinging the lad to his knees in front of him and consequently in front of the barrel of his gun.

"I-I, oh God," Jason choked and crunched his eyes closed, his hands coming up as some sort of ineffective defense. "I should have died in their p-place," he swallowed. "Because I am not a useful," he exhaled, "I am not a useful person."

"Now that wasn't so hard, was it?" Harry grinned at him.

The boy burst into tears.

Patting him on the shoulder, Harry made a reproving sound in the back of his throat. "That's enough crying, really, courage in the face of death, Jason. Courage," he said.

Sobs wracked the boy's frame, shaking him with resignation and no little fear, and Harry grew tired of the gibbering pleas and raised the gun. The shot echoed throughout the now silent street except for the harsh crack of burning wood as the houses tumbled. The boy, Jason, fell to the ground as if the strings holding him had been unceremoniously cut, and Harry watched him fall just like the embers from the smoldering street.

He turned back to the Dark Lord, his eyes bright and satisfied.

.o00o.

The attack on the village in County Durham was in the paper the next morning. The count of the dead was over a hundred "innocent souls", and twenty of them children. The village was mostly populated by Muggles, but an old squib and a wizard in the area had been caught by Death Eaters and tortured to death before the night was over. Much hullabaloo was made about the attack amongst the students of Hogwarts, who were shocked and fearful in the wake of the Dark Lord's first casualties of the war. Dumbledore was up in arms over the whole thing, escaping the moment he read the news to call upon his Order of the Phoenix that hadn't been informed of the plans for Durham. Harry put down the paper and picked up his tea.

Dumbledore hadn't know because the attack was quite random. An impulse, if Voldemort was capable of them. County Durham hadn't been chosen for any reason other than that Bellatrix had Apparated there and had thought it quaint. The attack had been a way for the Dark Lord to gauge how squeamish Harry was at killing. Finding out that Harry had a weakness for death and destruction was pleasing to Voldemort, and in fact, the memories of the killings from last night had him waking up content and refreshed in the morning.

Supposedly, Snape had gotten an earful from the Order about not knowing of the raid before it happened. Harry thought this quite irrational, given no one had known besides him and the Dark Lord, Lestrange and Malfoy. It made Harry a bit sad, when he realized that four wizards had taken a hundred lives in less than two hours. It made him sad to see Muggles acting just as weak as Voldemort constantly said they were.

With any luck, they would perhaps never be inferior again.

He lit a cigarette and sat back at his desk, deliberately ignoring Dumbledore's "smoking outside rule". The privacy of his rooms allowed him to smoke it slowly, inhaling and exhaling around the taste of strong tea. Last night, Harry had shown Voldemort exactly what he would put up with when it came to working for him. When it came to killing for him.

For the upcoming months that he would have to work for the man, he needed to be sure the Dark Lord didn't expect mass murder of innocent people from him. Innocent people, who to Harry, were those that were young enough to not be harmful. There would be no killing of babies, or useful people. Such was his creed, and Harry had asserted it that night without any requests for an explanation from the Dark Lord. The answer was simple, and Voldemort understood.

They had also spoken of Ammon, and Harry thought about that conversation as he made his way to sit in on a Transfiguration lesson Dumbledore had asked him to preview.

"You have your people looking for it, I'm sure," the Dark Lord had brushed it off, still sounding sour that Harry had contacts in the Muggle world that he defended quite often. "Though Muggles are generally inferior to us, they do have excellent records."

Harry had smiled. "They do. Unfortunately, there has been no word on the true name of this Ammon bloke," he admitted, disappointed.

"If you do find out his whereabouts," Voldemort began offhandedly. "I would not be adverse to another raid, since our last one was so successful."

He had appreciated the offer, and promised the Dark Lord that he would keep him up-to-date on the forever search for the elusive leader. Harry thought about Voldemort's words as he walked, and wondered at the proffer of a veritable army should he need it. The man, for all of his talk about caution and suspicion, trusted Harry just enough to be foolish.

Though the advantage was on his side, Harry took a moment to pity the machinations of mad men, for Dumbledore had committed the same idiotic mistake as his rival. He had acknowledged the power and the mind that Harry had and still chose to trust him (if only a little bit). That _little bit _didn't bode well for anyone.

"Hey," called a smooth voice from behind him. Harry turned around and smiled pleasantly at the attractive young man, who at first had been nothing but a prospective lay until the intriguing news of his family's involvement with the Dark Lord had reached Harry's ears. Draco Malfoy really was handsome.

"You must be Potter," Draco stated, reaching out a hand for him to shake.

Harry took it without hesitation. "You must be Draco," he said with a nod.

The boy seemed ridiculously pleased with the acceptance and apparent approval in Harry's eyes. A bright blush graced Draco's cheek when Harry smiled wider, and right there, he was tempted to kiss Malfoy until he turned as red as Ron's hair.

Someone cleared their throat from behind Draco, and the Slytherin stepped out of the way with an apologetic glance at his friend. He swept an arm towards the dark skinned student stepping forward, and said, "This is my friend, Blaise Zabini."

Harry grinned.


	19. Chapter Eighteen

A/n: I'm so sorry for not updating last week. Obligations, obligations. Ah, but I can guess you guys will quite like this chapter. It's definitely shorter than the last, but hey, it ends in a wonderful spot, and I do so love cliffhangers.

A Few Responses: Ncgal: Hey there! Good to see you again! Harry and Draco will be getting together pretty soon, actually. Harry's pretty much celibate (Snape is such a saint) and Draco's a hormonal sixteen year old boy. Makes for some slash, I think. Don't worry about Hermione digging, though, she won't cause trouble until the sequel. Then you might just hate her :). Why does that even deserve a smile? :(. I'm having an...eventful summer so far, thanks. How about you? Elektrocity: Oh, you'll understand the ambivalence soon enough. Heck, I'll just tell you. He's human, and he's Harry. LOL, that's my explanation. You're very welcome for this story! Thank you for reviewing! Kat: Thank you! But if you guys keep saying I'm amazing I'm going to get another complex. How about this, _you're _amazing, Kat! Amazonia: You know, I don't think anyone has ever used up all those characters! If they had, they deserve a prize! Just like you deserve a prize for dealing with me. I owe you an arm, a leg, my firstborn, and the ashes of my dead cat. Wait, you can't have my dead cat's ashes. LOL, why does that remind me of Pineapple Express? I'll talk to you later today, love.

Dedication: To **Airborn-Love** for reviewing every single chapter of my stories. The coolest thing ever, no doubt. To Amazonia for looking this over so diligently, and to all you wonderful people who didn't crucify me for not updating. Much love.

Warnings for this chapter: swearing, torture, pre-slash, plot twists, and a cliffhanger.

* * *

Pistol Whipped

Chapter Eighteen

_Someone cleared their throat from behind Draco, and the Slytherin stepped out of the way with an apologetic glance at his friend. He swept an arm towards the dark skinned student stepping forward, and said, "This is my friend, Blaise Zabini." _

_Harry grinned. _

"Potter," Blaise greeted him somewhat hesitantly, which Harry didn't blame him for, considering how obviously he had perked up upon hearing the boy's name.

"Zabini," he said curiously, and not in a way to get Blaise's attention. "A well-known name in the right circles. As is Malfoy," he mentioned with a nod in Draco's direction. "A pleasure."

Raising an eyebrow, Blaise turned to glance at Draco, who looked equally puzzled at Harry's strange behavior. When it didn't look as though they would say anything any time soon, Harry straightened and spoke for them.

"We should speak, you and I," he said to Blaise idly. Before the boy could ask, he clarified, "About mutual acquaintances."

Those dark eyes narrowed in caution, but Blaise nodded despite his blatant distrust. Harry felt quite giddy at that, and smiled at them both rather generously. He caught Draco's eyes and held them.

"I had the pleasure of meeting your father a fortnight ago. A very impressive man," he told the blond.

Draco inhaled deeply. "My-my father?" he repeated quickly, casting a shocked expression at Blaise. "My father is in prison," Draco informed him with the hint of a threat in his tone. He probably thought Harry was taking the mickey out of him.

Tilting his head to the side in intrigue, Harry frowned and said, "Azkaban is not where I met him."

Draco seemed so entirely alarmed that his breathing picked up to quite an unhealthy pace. Harry patted him on the arm.

"Perhaps we should all have a chat," he suggested kindly. "The Room of Requirement, then, gentlemen? How does after dinner sound?"

"I-" Draco paused and bit his lip. "Alright, yes," he agreed.

"Blaise?"

"Of course."

"Good then," Harry inclined his head to the both of them. "If you'll excuse me, I have an appointment with the headmaster."

He left them behind, his body alive with excitement at having found that his lost and much-looked-for glasses had been perching on his nose all along, metaphorically speaking, of course. Who knew the answer to Augustus Zabini, and subsequently the enigmatic Ammon, would be here at Hogwarts? Harry laughed to himself as he trudged up the staircase towards Dumbledore's office.

.o00o.

"I will be gone for the night, on personal business, sir," he said after the tea had been passed around and the polite greetings had been made. "I hope you don't need me for anything specific."

"Of course not, my boy," Dumbledore chortled as if the very thought of beleaguering Harry were a yarn. "May I be so rude as to ask what this business is about?" the headmaster queried, rudely.

Harry smiled. "A friend of mine is getting a bit lonely without me," he explained. "I have yet to pay him a visit since I left the Muggle world."

"Oh, yes," Dumbledore placed his teacup down and his eyes twinkled. "I'm afraid I did not take into account what your presence here would do to your social life. I apologize, Harry."

"There's no need for apologies, sir," he waved it away. "How goes the plans for the Azkaban escapees?"

Dumbledore sighed. "There hasn't been any word on their whereabouts, of course," he said, sipping at his tea. "Keeping it quiet has been a trial for the Ministry."

"They don't realize that the capture of these criminals would be better accomplished through the cooperation of the media," he stated in agreement, and had to hide his laughter at calling _anyone_ else a criminal. John would have died with hilarity.

"I admit that it would cause quite a panic, but this tactic has its overwhelming advantages," Dumbledore acknowledged, sad that the Ministry did not seem to understand.

"The Order hasn't heard anything either, I take it?"

"Alas, the community remains silent," the headmaster suddenly sat forward. "Perhaps, though, your contacts may have heard something in their circles?"

Harry remained expressionless, though just barely. "They may," he admitted tightly. "Although my _contacts _are almost exclusively embroiled in the Muggle world, I see no harm in asking."

"Wonderful, my boy," Dumbledore exclaimed with a mawkish amount of cheer, completely bypassing the fact that Harry had had, still had, his hands rather deep in illegalities, obvious by his connections to known Muggle criminals. He wasn't sure what the headmaster new about his life out of Hogwarts, but he could bet that, whatever information there was available, the old man was likely conversant with it. So like him, though, to plead ignorance in the interest of the greater good, Harry reflected.

Seeing as they had little else to say to each other, he thanked the headmaster and made his way out of the office, and, upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, he came face to face with Severus Snape.

Harry smiled at him scornfully. "I've informed the headmaster of my leave taking," he told the man. "I thank you for the advice, professor."

"Imbecile," Snape informed him quickly. "I should not have had to enlighten you of such a necessity!"

"Doubtless," Harry agreed. "But I thank you anyway." He slithered forward, into Snape's personal space, and found he was a head or so taller than him due to the staircase. "Or perhaps my gratitude is not displayed enough in words," he whispered rather close to the shell of Snape's ear. "Perhaps a token, a _physical _gesture, of my thanks will suffice?"

Snape shuddered, his long sinewy back straight as an arrow. "Not only are you half my age-" he began.

"As if that has ever stopped me before," Harry confessed, crossing his arms as if to solidify his stance on this particular topic. Snape blushed terribly, then seemed to realize he was quite red in the face, and turned the feeble color of gloom.

"You will cease this ludicrous _seduction _at once!" Snape yelled at him, his voice carrying up the stairway. "I am _not _interested, nor will I _ever_ be!"

"Is everything alright, Severus?" Dumbledore's voice traveled from the top of the steps. "It sounds like you're having a struggle down there!"

Harry turned and shouted up the stairs, "Snape's straight!"

"I could have told you that, my boy."

"_Enough_!" the potions professor hissed at him, and made to get past Harry's unmoving form. "This is entirely inappropriate, Potter. I have never been attracted to men, least of all underage, impertinent, dim-witted little boys like you!"

With a small scoff, Harry reached out and straightened Snape's robe, running his hands down the now completely frozen man's chest. "So dishonest with yourself," he observed with a shake of his head. "The offer still stands, professor."

He turned and walked away, feeling Snape's furious glare on his back all the way down the hall. Dumbledore's voice echoed again as he bade Snape up to his office.

"Come along, Severus!" the old man yelled cheerfully. "You can have your underage tryst later!"

When Snape's cussing reached his ears, even from so far away, Harry couldn't help but laugh.

.o00o.

Draco sat down on the clone sofa in front of the scarily familiar fire and let out a loud anxious huff. Blaise sat beside him as they observed the replica of the Slytherin common room that the Room of Requirement had conjured for them. Upon Draco's blatant display of frustration, Blaise turned to give him a rather impatient glare.

"He wasn't what you thought he would be," Blaise said when Draco had calmed.

"Is he what _you _thought?" he snapped back.

"Not at all," Blaise confessed, looking at his nails as if they were the most interesting thing in the world. "But you know that."

Draco watched him with a keen eye and anger steadily boiling to the top. "And you've no idea what he means by _mutual acquaintances_, right?" he asked for the tenth time, sounding as sardonic as any Malfoy could.

"As I've explained," Blaise said slowly, abandoning his nails. "I do not have the slightest clue what Potter was on about."

"Then don't act like you're not curious!" he bit out furiously.

"Don't be a lout, then!"

They both turned when the entrance to the room appeared and admitted Harry Potter, who never ceased to make Draco breathless with a surfeit of emotions when he entered a room. The boy was wearing the tightest blue jeans Draco had ever seen, expensive-looking boots, a shirt that left none of his wiry muscles to the imagination, and a polished black blazer.

Draco noticed the belt Potter was wearing (when his eyes had drifted to other places), and he tried to remember what sort of Muggle contraption it was that was displayed on the buckle. Gungs, or gruns? Two of them crossed to form a perfect X, and it was very stylish, though he didn't approve of the obvious glorification displayed towards Muggles and their barbaric machinery.

He dragged his stare up to that beautiful face, those almost outlandish green eyes, and he felt his body instantly react to the thickness of the power floating in the air above Potter. It clung to everything like a sickeningly wonderful stink. Draco took a deep breath and managed a welcoming nod in Potter's direction.

"Malfoy, Zabini," the boy acknowledged them both politely. "I'm afraid, Draco, that news of your father must wait."

"But-"

Harry smiled at him gently. "Not long, I promise you," he said, and turned his head towards Blaise. "I would very much like to get in touch with a relation of yours, Blaise," he said, cutting right to the chase.

Blaise stiffened, his posture as impeccable as always but now so perfect it looked painful. He raised one dark eyebrow in response. "Who, may I ask?" he asked rigidly.

"Augustus Zabini."

Frowning, the Slytherin shifted warily. "Uncle Augie?" he said rather mystified, and realized just how juvenile that sounded and cleared his throat. "I haven't spoken to him in years, Potter." The _why do you want him and how do you know him _was obvious in Blaise's short tone of voice.

"He's missing," Potter explained. "Of a sort. I would very much like to speak with him, Blaise."

"I don't know where he is," the Slytherin responded sincerely.

Draco watched their conversation closely, and wondered (judging by Potter's rude interrogation) if this was where the Boy-Who-Lived threatened Blaise to come clean. But surprisingly, Potter only nodded in that sagacious way of his and kept all of his attention on Blaise.

"As it may be," he said, "But your blood will know more."

Blaise grew very tense. "Pardon?" he choked.

"A simple spell, really," Potter continued as if the other boy hadn't said anything. "Magic must always have a connection, and _blood_, Blaise, is one of its greatest tools."

"You're assuming I'll let you curse me," Blaise said as casually as possible. "You're also assuming Augustus is blood related."

Harry grinned. "You just answered that question, mate. Your anxiety tells me he's your mother's brother."

Blaise scowled. "Magic in blood, Potter," he grasped at strings. "You're assuming he's a wizard."

"A squib, am I right?" Potter prodded, and Blaise said nothing, but his lips tightened into a line. "The gene is in him, dormant, but there nonetheless, and with your blood connection it is quite possible to locate your wayward uncle. It won't hurt in the slightest." Potter grinned and said dramatically, "I promise."

Remaining motionless, as if unworried, Blaise exhaled through his nostrils and asked, "What do you want him for?"

Draco noticed then that there was an odd glint in Potter's eyes as he looked Blaise over from head to toe.

"A mutual acquaintance of your uncle and mine was killed a few months ago," Potter confessed. "Your uncle has yet to be informed, and I would very much like to be the one that breaks the news. As hard as it is to bear."

"What do you know about my uncle's business?" Blaise stood up and demanded, losing his temper for the first time.

"What do _you_ know?" Potter countered obnoxiously. He smiled when Blaise swallowed and remained deathly silent. "If you would be so kind," he said, motioning for Blaise to sit again. "I will be in your debt, of course, if you decide to help me find your uncle."

Draco started at that comment. "You would place a debt over yourself? A debt to a _Slytherin_?"

"He's doing me a service, Draco," Potter replied, his green eyes swinging to gaze at him like an unexpected storm. "I will repay him anytime he wants, for any reason, for any thing."

Knowing that Blaise would not give up the chance to have Harry Potter in his debt, Draco settled down to observe magic he had never even heard of before. Blaise nodded, somewhat cautiously, and sat as comfortably as possible on the armchair that Potter directed him to. The boy was smiling still, as he moved forward to kneel between Blaise's legs, a position that Draco knew would've had him coming instantly, had it been him sitting in that chair and not the completely straight Blaise.

Potter placed both of his hands on Blaise's knees, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. Draco gasped as Blaise threw his head back, panting for breath. His entire body was taut with what looked to be pleasure.

Before him, Potter's own body released such a torrent of heavy, thick power that it seeped through Draco's clothes and continued beneath his skin. He shivered at the feeling of it, like a swarming of hungry birds of prey, and he felt for Blaise, who was likely in the ocean of Potter's power and not just the stream that Draco was in.

Draco saw that the boy's hands, still tightly clasping Blaise's knees, were secreting small spirals of what looked to be green fire. They disappeared into his friend's body, each tiny plume making Blaise gasp for air. Suddenly, the magic that hovered through him and around him disintegrated with a _snap! _and Potter let go of Blaise gently.

Breathing again, without the weight of the power that had slithered into his blood and _ignited _it with lust, Draco watched Blaise sit up quickly. His friend was panting, his face stained dark with embarrassment, and he gazed at Potter with what looked to be awe and no small amount of anger.

"Thank you, Blaise," Potter said, rising to his feet. "I'm sorry if it made you uncomfortable."

"I-I-" Blaise swallowed and caught his breath. "I'm straight."

There was a moment of silence, and then Potter threw his head back and laughed in obvious delight. He placed a hand on Blaise's shoulder to steady himself as he snickered. "Of that I'm sure," Potter managed to say. "Ha, perhaps a little help, then?"

He waved a hand at Blaise, who stiffened a bit, and Draco realized then that Potter had used a _Scourgify _and that his best mate had rather humiliatingly come in his pants.

"Well, then," Potter said, gathering himself. "There is a vanishing cabinet around here somewhere, isn't there, Draco?"

Draco rose from his seat quickly, his eyes wide. "How did you know about that?" he nearly shouted.

Giving him a wry look, Potter lifted one shoulder. "Mutual acquaintances," he repeated, and Draco was getting tired of that casual assurance. The cabinet appeared before them suddenly, and Potter moved towards it, ignoring the hesitant hand that Draco had thrust out to stop him.

"It doesn't work," Draco felt he should point out, since it looked as though Potter would be meddling with it. "I've been trying to fix it," he paused and stared away. "I've not finished yet."

Potter ran his hands down the woodwork, a frown on his face. "You're missing a link in the chain of spells. Borgin and Burkes' own transport signature."

Draco flushed, having not thought of that and hating that he hadn't. "So it was killing everything I sent through…."

"Because the connection wasn't solid in the base of the magic. Anything living would be shredded into pieces and put back together in a slightly impaired copy," the boy explained absently. "Enough to disfigure even molecules and kill the unfortunate creature. It would be a slow process too, so it would be painful," Potter said it so pensively that Draco wondered if the boy was some sort of sadist. He wondered why he was getting hard at the thought, as well.

"There, now," Potter exclaimed, and Draco looked up. "All fixed."

He exchanged a quick glance with Blaise, who seemed to have gotten his bearings back. "You're leaving through there?" Draco asked, nodding to the cabinet with a startled look.

"I am," Potter confirmed. He turned around to stare at them, that passive smile still  
on his face and all the more disdainful. "Would you like to visit your uncle, Blaise?"

Blaise licked his lips, nodding, and moved towards the cabinet. Draco glared at him, askance as to why he would go along with Potter's crazy plan, but the stare he received in return explained everything. Blaise didn't trust Potter with his uncle. He didn't trust Potter at all.

"You're welcome as well, Draco," he abruptly addressed the blond, a bit negligently. "If you'd like to speak to your father."

Draco found he had no objection to that, and with one last suspicious glare at Potter, he moved forward to stand beside Blaise. Potter waved them into the cabinet as the door swung open with an overly polite, "After you."

.o00o.

Borgin shot up from his seat when Draco emerged from the vanishing cabinet, his eyes round and gleeful. "It works!" he hollered triumphantly.

Draco nodded and then flushed. He questioned how foolish Potter thought he was for agreeing readily to go through a magical artifact that, until minutes ago, would have killed him painfully had he not fixed it. _Caution, Draco_, his father's voice floated into his head.

The cabinet shook and Blaise came out from inside with a flustered glare on his face. Borgin abandoned the meal he'd laid out on his desk and came up to examine the working artifact. "I must inform our Lord! Good work, Draco. Smashing job!" Borgin gushed.

Another shake, and the cabinet opened again, and Borgin's tangent came to a stop. "Potter!" he shouted, surprised.

The boy in question shut the door behind him and smiled at the man kindly. "You've a letter, Borgin," he said, as if it was a perfectly acceptable way to greet someone.

_Tap. Tap. Tap.  
_

Draco turned to the window, where a large black crow sat waiting impatiently to be allowed inside. Potter waited, motionless, as Borgin received his mail. The man looked up at them when he'd finished reading. "Well, well," he croaked, and then coughed. "Welcome," he said to Potter weakly.

Potter merely dipped his head. "Will you tell our Lord to expect us in the next hour, Borgin? I'd be grateful."

"Of course, sir."

"Thank you, and an admirable job, I'll tell him that."

Borgin sputtered ridiculously, happily extending his good wishes as they made their way out of the shop. Blaise and Draco followed Potter out to the street, looking at each other only briefly to share the alarm they both felt. Potter came to a stop in a dark alcove, and turned to them swiftly.

"Perhaps we should hold hands," he suggested calmly.

"You work for the Dark Lord," Blaise said, his voice low with surprise and wariness.

Potter grasped his hand and Draco's. "Let's visit your uncle, shall we?"

There was a jolt, and Draco felt as if he were suddenly very small, and then very big. The echo of Apparition hadn't followed them on their journey, and he realized that Potter had vanished with little to no sound. "That-" he breathed out. "That didn't feel like Apparition!"

"Because it wasn't, I suppose," Potter retorted.

They were in a large dining room, the owner apparently quite wealthy judging by the porcelain, the redwood furniture, and the various paintings around the massive room. There was a noise from outside, a stampede of feet, then Potter moved forward.

"We have to go quickly," he said to them with his back turned.

Having no choice but to follow, Draco cast Blaise a confused look that was returned with equal befuddlement. They came into the hall, and the sound of retreating footsteps and raised voices ricocheted off of the cramped antechamber. Potter's pace was swift but silent as they climbed up an ornate staircase and into another passageway. Potter slowed in front of a door, and stood there silently.

"He's here," Potter murmured, reaching around to nudge Blaise towards the door. "Would you be so kind as to open it, Blaise?"

Blaise gave him a look, but reached for the knob and turned it anyway. It swung open, and Draco got a tiny glimpse of the room inside before Potter moved and suddenly held Blaise against his body. He wrapped his arm around the Slytherin's neck, placing one of those Muggle metal contraptions at his temple.

Potter walked Blaise forward, and Draco pushed down the panic that threatened to overwhelm him and went into the room after them. In front of Potter and Blaise, a man sat at his desk, one hand over a pitcher of what looked to be white wine and the other over a similar Muggle weapon. Draco suddenly remembered what they were called.

_Guns_, he thought, and was there a reason why they were feared in the Muggle world?

"Hello, Augie," Potter greeted the man cheerfully. "Shut the door, Draco."

He did as he was told, and felt some sort of ward snap into place. Augustus Zabini put down the pitcher, and raised both of his hands in surrender. "Brooks," he nodded to Potter, and then trained his panicked eyes on his nephew. "Don't move, Blaise."

"We're long overdue for a chat, _Augie_," Potter said casually, waving the gun a bit. "I'd appreciate if there were no interruptions."

Zabini nodded summarily, and pressed a button on some sort of speaker. "Terence," he said into the intercom. "Keep everyone out of my office."

"Yes, sir," a voice answered.

"I'm guessing we have five minutes," Potter commented sardonically, rolling his eyes. He pointed his gun at Zabini's weapon. "On the floor. In the corner."

Zabini threw the gun away.

"Get up."

Zabini got up. Potter pushed Blaise into his Uncle's vacated seat and shoved him down, gesturing to the chair in front of the desk.

"Have a seat."

"There's really no need for-"

"Shut it," Potter snapped at him, glaring. "I had a very hard time finding you, Zabini, but now that I have, I would be very happy if you didn't fuck this up. Now _sit down_."

"Let my nephew go," Augustus said boldly.

Potter laughed. "It's touching, isn't it, Blaise?" he asked his capturer.

Draco saw that his best friend was gritting his teeth, and without any intention, he moved closer.

"Stay where you are, Draco," Potter told him harshly.

"This wasn't part of the deal," Blaise spoke up angrily. "_You_ said you were friends with my uncle!"

"I said no such thing," Potter retorted with a scoff, giving him a disgusted glare. "Now shut the fuck up or I'll blow your motherfucking head off."

Blaise went quiet.

"I was only following orders," Augustus suddenly blurted. "It wasn't anything personal against your father-"

The man went stiff and silent, his mouth open in shock, and it looked a bit like Augustus was under the Cruciatus Curse. As Draco watched, he realized that it was infinitely worse than the terribly painful Unforgivable. Zabini's entire body was trembling, taunt with agony, and his eyes were wide as they changed from white to red. Blood. The skin tightened around his face, his hands, and it pulsed as if there were a living being pushing to get out of the man's body.

"Stop!" Blaise yelled, beginning to rise. Potter slammed him back into the chair roughly and ended the curse.

Augustus, let go of the awful spell, seemed to melt, slumping into his seat as if his energy had been forcefully torn out of him. Sweat beaded his forehead, and when the man blinked, blood ran down his cheeks in a parody of tears. Draco felt his breathing hitch, and suddenly he was very afraid.

"I understand why Denny was set up," Potter said, leaning on Blaise's chair. "You work for a man named Ammon," he gestured to the obviously injured Augustus with his gun.

"I don't-"

In a flash, Zabini was under the curse again, and this time, his bladder went, and once Potter released the spell he burst into bloody sobs.

"Please," he choked out. "I was just following orders, I was just," he coughed and thick red dripped out of his lips and down his chin. "I was just… please-"

"What's his real name?" Potter asked impassively.

"I don't know!"

Blaise tensed and suddenly started to scream. Draco moved forward again, but Potter shot a hand in his direction, and then he couldn't move at all. Terror seized him as he watched, unable to help, as his best friend was tortured.

"Stop it! Stop it!" Augustus yelled as Blaise's screams reached a fever pitch. "Victor Massimiliano! Victor-" He coughed and spat out blood, "-Massimiliano."

The curse ended, and Blaise wilted into the cushioned seat with struggling breaths. Potter smiled at Augustus, his green eyes so bright they burned into Draco even though Potter wasn't even looking at him.

"Now that wasn't so hard, was it?" the boy quipped.

"_You bastard_!" Zabini howled at him. "You little shite! Victor's going to put you down, Brooks! He's going to-"

Potter silenced him with a wave of his hand. At the same moment, Draco was released from the spell and he moved to Blaise, who titled forward dizzily.

"I-" Blaise choked, and then he turned his head to glare up at Potter weakly. "I told you, I'm bloody _straight_."

Draco dew back a bit in disgust, and Blaise turned that disgruntled glower to him. A glance at his friend's crotch told him all, and he tried very hard not to laugh at Blaise's expense. It seemed there was a thin line between pleasure and pain, after all, and Draco couldn't help chuckle at that thought. Blaise would likely never forgive him.

Potter left them, smiling, and came up to Augustus, who tensed even though it doubtlessly caused him pain.

"Thank you for your cooperation," he said to the tortured man congenially, and then raised his gun to aim right in between Zabini's eyes.

"No!" Blaise shouted, shooting up from Draco's hold. "Don't kill him, Potter!"

Potter didn't move, the gun still pointed, and said without looking at Blaise, "Why? Is he a useful person?"

Zabini was speaking through the silencing charm, and Potter impatiently waved it away.

"I can get to Victor," Zabini pleaded loudly. "I can help!"

"Not a moment ago you were speaking of my imminent death by his hands. You seemed loyal then, Augie," Potter remarked.

"I take it back!" the man shuffled a bit and licked his bloodstained lips. "I can work for you, Brooks. It's clear that Victor doesn't know about the sort of power you have."

Potter lifted a shoulder nonchalantly. "Yes, well, we should all pity the man. I'm not persuaded, however." He cocked back the hammer. "You're only a liability, Zabini, make no mistake about that," he said cruelly, his finger a hair's-breadth from pulling the trigger.

"Don't!" Blaise shouted desperately. "_Please_, don't!"

There was a silence. Draco stood next to his friend, frightened. Zabini sat trembling under the stare of the barrel, as a wizard would gaze at a frozen Killing Curse, and Blaise stood with his hands clenched, a helpless and pleading expression contorting his face.

"Are you calling upon my debt?"

Blaise blinked, his hands loosening, and swallowed audibly. "I-" he panted. "Yes, yes. You can't kill him."

Potter put the safety back on the gun with a click. "Very well," he said lightly, and withdrew. Zabini breathed out a heavy sigh of relief, and Blaise shot forward to tend to his uncle. He cast a furious glance at Potter, who didn't notice, for he was busy ransacking Zabini's desk, pulling out various guns and trinkets and stuffing them into his pockets. There was abruptly heavy pounding on the door, and voices yelling, "Sir! Sir!"

"Time to go," Potter said and quickly went to the Zabinis. Draco followed him, a bit like a startled and terrified animal.

Potter smirked as the pounding grew louder, and hoisted Augustus up with Blaise's help. "Everyone hold hands."

.o00o.

"He needs healing!" Blaise yelled loudly. "Are you listening to me, Potter? He needs a Healer!"

The boy's shouting was ignored in favor of moving into the cover of Borgin and Burkes, and thankfully, it was late enough that no one would come to inspect the noise in the alleyway. Potter turned back to them in the door hang, and frowned at a very angry Blaise holding up his nearly unconscious uncle.

"Oh, right," he said impatiently (as if he had forgotten) and motioned the group inside. They struggled with their load and were immediately accosted by Borgin the moment they stumbled through the door.

"Did he respond, Borgin?" Potter asked as Blaise put Augustus in a chair. His uncle's head lolled to the side and then remained motionless. Blaise panicked for a moment but realized his uncle was taking deep, slow breaths in an attempt to remain awake.

"He did! He did, Mr. Potter!" Borgin exclaimed excitedly, handing Potter what looked to be a short letter. The boy read it briefly and grasped up the envelope it had come in, turning out its contents. A small diamond plated watch fell into Potter's hand. "Good," he said to the hovering Borgin. "Thank you."

"No thanks, sir! No thanks are needed!"

Potter moved forward and waved a hand at Zabini before Blaise could protest. The man slumped in a dead sleep, heavy snores punctuating the silence, and Potter quickly levitated him before Augustus could slide to the floor. He ran a hand down the prone body for a moment, before the slight wheeze of Zabini's snores disappeared and peace and unawareness settled over his face.

"There," Potter said, patting a shocked Blaise on the shoulder. "All better."

Blaise, however, was less optimistic. "How did you do that?" he demanded to know. "Did you even _heal_ him right?"

"If I'm going to curse someone," Potter snapped at him. "I had better know how to reverse the damage. You don't make a mess you can't clean."

Still glaring as if his stare could injure Potter fatally, Blaise clenched his fists tightly at his sides. "You never meant to kill him, did you?" he asked, irate.

Potter smiled at him, looking amused. "No," he said, "I didn't."

Draco couldn't help but snigger, his hilarity slightly unhinged due to the terror still pumping through his blood.

"How's this then, Blaise? Potter's more of a Slytherin than you are," he teased feebly.

"Shut it, Draco!" Blaise bellowed, absolutely furious.

Turning his head to look at him, Potter raised both of his eyebrows and made a disappointed sound in the back of his throat. "You have no sense of humor," he said to Blaise, and then grinned at Draco. "I think I quite like you, Draco," he winked.

He blushed a deep red until Potter looked away and waved them forward with an errant hand. "Let's go," he commanded, all business once again. "Bring your uncle, Blaise."

Blaise pushed the unconscious Augustus with him as they sidled up to Potter. Draco followed with a short look at Borgin, who smiled delightedly.

"Where are we going?" Draco managed to ask, despite his instant state of arousal when Potter had flirted so shamelessly.

Potter held out his hand to show them the watch, as if it explained everything, and then gave a short wave to Borgin. "To see your dear old Daddy, of course," he said, giving Blaise one side of the watch to hold and Draco the other. Potter touched the face of the clock just as it switched to the tenth hour.

Draco felt the pull at his navel and the whooshing of speedy travel until his feet hit hard stone and threatened to buckle his knees. He managed to stay upright, along with everyone else, and Augustus let out a loud snore into the still drawing room. Draco instantly recognized where he was. It was hard not to, given the fact that it was his own parlor he was standing in, and, when a voice called out to Potter, he knew who was standing before them without looking. Fear pounded through him, and he watched as Potter grinned amiably at the Dark Lord.

"My Lord," he greeted the man with a bow, "I hope you don't mind-" He spread out a hand to show Blaise and his uncle, and Draco, who caught his breath, "-a few guests."

.o00o.

"Yes, I know I haven't proposed this before," he said impatiently, leaning forward and planting his elbows on his knees. "But why use the cabinet when I could complete the task so easily?" he suggested, blowing out a cloud of smoke.

"What do you expect from Dumbledore during this time?" The Dark Lord asked calmly, ignoring Bella's angry mutters. Beside her, Lucius shifted with curiosity.

"The destruction of the Order of the Phoenix. Contact with a very notorious wizard about a _wand_."

"You're speaking of Grindelwald," Voldemort hissed, surprised.

"I'm speaking of what Grindelwald _knows_," Harry extrapolated, taking another drag. "Dumbledore also has the Hallows. I need to know their location before he's disposed of."

The Dark Lord gave him a short nod. "I had not considered that they would be anywhere else but at Hogwarts," he mentioned idly.

"Dumbledore's expecting to be dead by the end of the school year," Harry told him. "He has hid them in anticipation of his death."

"I see how we would need to be cautious," the Dark Lord acknowledged, looking placid and pensive.

"Perhaps this task is better suited for you," he murmured. "I had intended the boy to perish in his efforts to finish the old man."

Lucius flinched from beside them, and Voldemort looked at him briefly. "Failure has its consequences, does it not, Lucius?"

The man, wisely, said nothing. Bellatrix, however, seemed to have been holding in her remarks for too long. "What about the Vow? It still stands despite Draco's cowardice!" she sniped.

"The Vow should have _never _been made in the first place, Bella!" Voldemort whispered dangerously. "Must we be punished again?"

He looked as if he were going to curse her, and she flinched back into the shadows in an effort to disappear. Before Voldemort could summon her back and likely kill her, Harry relaxed into his seat and called, "Severus," and Voldemort's wide eyes snapped to him. "Come here," he bade the concealed man.

There was no sight of the Potion's Master, so Harry repeated, "Come here. There's no use in hiding."

Snape melted out of the darkness, dropping the Disillusionment Charm with an air of resignation.

"Dumbledore…" he began.

"Had you follow me," Harry finished for him. "Yes, I'm aware."

Severus bowed low to the Dark Lord, who smiled at him pleasantly. Snape looked at Harry with a rather expectant glare, no doubt preparing for the worst, but Harry only beckoned him to the seat beside him on the sofa. He reached out and placed his hands at Snape's temple, before closing his eyes.

The magic rose into the air like a thick fog, surrounding the room in a suffocating grip. It undulated, consolidated, peaked, and then smoothed out like still waters. Harry pulled away and frowned, looking to the Dark Lord after he had checked the state of his magic. The Dark Lord merely nodded, and grasped Harry's arm tightly. Snape watched the motion warily, and tensed as Harry reached for him again.

"Relax," the boy whispered gently, and the process began once more. This time, however, the magic had doubled, and it felt as though Snape were caught in a sea of it. The torrent of their combined powers ripped through him, breaking the vow as if it were a fortress made of sand. Severus tilted forward, breathing heavily as the power receded. He was too preoccupied by the draining magic to be embarrassed that Harry was holding him up by the shoulders.

"The task is mine now," Harry said to the room quietly.

The Dark Lord quirked his lips in a small show of humor. "Such hatred for our venerable headmaster," he remarked, picking up his forgotten wine glass.

"I must confess," Harry sighed, letting go of Snape and crossing his legs. "I do not hate anyone, per se, I merely think them disposable. Dumbledore had his shot at the world," Harry paused and looked at Snape then. "It's time for his reign to end."

Severus remained slumped, simply unable to rise after the shock of the spell, but when the Dark Lord motioned for them all to stand, he pushed himself, in vain, to follow orders. A hand on his own startled him, and a bit of that familiar power leaked into his body and soothed the weak ache of his muscles.

Harry nodded to him imperceptivity, and Snape found he was able to get up.

"Leave us," the Dark Lord commanded, his eyes on the boy. Bella hesitated as Lucius and Severus went out obediently, but one dark glance at her from Voldemort had her pushing past them to retreat into the hall.

Once the door had shut, Harry smiled at the Dark Lord pleasantly. "Thank you, my Lord," he said softly, "for allowing me this task."

Voldemort waved his appreciation away, though he looked chuffed all the same. "I do not doubt your power, or your capability," he complimented.

"I'm glad of that," Harry said sincerely. "Perhaps I ought to explain who has accompanied me today."

"I am cross about that," the Dark Lord told him calmly, finishing off his glass of wine. "You mentioned that Augustus Zabini is a _squib_."

Harry fidgeted a little under that intense glare, but explained the reason for a squib being spared. When he had finished, Voldemort was very interested in the subject of the Guild, having never heard of them before.

"I have no doubt they have their eyes on you," Harry warned him. "I think…" he stopped and looked away.

The Dark Lord observed him carefully. "I have never disallowed you to speak freely, Harry," he said.

He looked back at the man and narrowed his gaze, sighing. "I think," Harry began again. "That they're after my dad and me because they know what I am to you."

"They know…" Voldemort hissed, his jaw tilted to the side in wary anger.

"I don't see why they would target me otherwise," he responded helplessly. "I want them _dead _for putting Denny in prison. I know he's just a Muggle to you, but he took care of me when no one else would and-"

"You needn't explain it to me," the Dark Lord interrupted sibilantly. "I can see how much he means to you, Harry. By default, he is more than just a Muggle."

Harry smiled at him. "You know," he teased. "You're not _that_ much of a big bad Dark Lord."

Voldemort simply sniffed, and Harry had to laugh. "I would need to ensure the happiness of my Horcrux, would I not?" he mentioned sardonically.

He did the only thing that was an acceptable gesture of gratitude. Harry leaned forward and kissed him, and surprisingly, the man tasted of good wine and mint, as if he had been indulging in both. The magic shuddered around them, and he pulled away when the pleasure coursed through him, too harsh, and altogether too much. Harry had never quite had a kiss that wonderful before, nor so potentially _hazardous _before.

They both wanted more, for they stayed close but did not touch. Harry felt the Dark Lord's smooth, cold hands run across his face, until he pulled back with hesitance. He stared into those ruby eyes and smiled gently.

"You'll take care of Zabini for me?" he whispered. "Put him to work? Be fair to him?"

Voldemort sat back with a groan. "If I _must_," he snapped, but Harry knew he wasn't angry. "What of his nephew? Is he interested in joining a worthy cause?"

Harry laughed, though the man had no idea what he found so humorous. _A worthy cause_, _indeed, _Harry mocked. "He's a part of this now, whether he likes it or not," he said mildly.

"Should we dispose of Draco? I imagine him quite worthless, now."

"No," he shook his head. "Let Dumbledore think the boy is still obligated to kill him."

The Dark Lord smiled, his eyes on Harry's lips. "You think like me," he commented.

"My soul is yours," Harry countered, rising from his seat. "If I do, I cannot help it."

When Harry made for the door, no goodbyes exchanged, for they were not that sort of people, Voldemort's voice called him back with a strange sort of ashamed reluctance. "You could stay," the man said, dawdling over his words. "You could stay the night, if you would like."

Harry was no stranger to a proposition for sex. Perhaps he would have taken the Dark Lord up on the offer if there wasn't so much involved. He feared the similar magic they each carried, the connection within them that could very well drown what little of Harry's soul there was left. The power, if embraced, would make him not himself. He would cease to be anything but a Horcrux. For this, Harry would have to refuse.

"No," he tried to sound disappointed. "When all of this is over, a thousand nights or more I will stay."

Voldemort understood, however much he disliked it. "When it's over, then," he said, dipping his head at the boy.

The sense of loss when the door closed was annoying, and Harry pushed away the ugly feeling and coveted the disgust he felt underneath the eager lust. There would be no fraternizing with a man capable of destroying his soul, for if there was one thing Harry cherished more, it was the spirit that kept him strong.

.o00o.

"Victor Massimiliano," Henry repeated for the third time.

"Eh?"

"Donnelly!" Henry turned to Marks in hope of a better accomplice. "Massimiliano! Can you look it up, already? M-A-S-S-I-M-I-um…."

"Ha!" Donnelly pointed at him. "Some crime fighter you are, you can't even spell!"

"Technically," Henry said pompously, crossing his arms. "I'm not a crime fighter; I've just got a god-complex. And I'm also technically a criminal."

Donnelly smirked at him.

"And I _can _spell," Henry snapped. "F-U-C-K Y-O-U."

"Impressive."

Marks swiveled around in his seat and grinned at them. "I've got him," he said excitedly.

They gathered around the screen, Monroe taking up half of the visual until Donnelly gave her a shove in the other direction. "Ugh," Marks gagged.

"I second that," Monroe added, looking sick.

Victor Massimiliano was ugly as hell. Roughly forty-seven, given the outdated and inaccurate profile, he had a terrible scowl on his face in the mug shot, matched with an equally creepy smirk, and a large rose colored nose.

His last known address, it said, was in the middle of Berlin during the Cold War. Henry looked away from the unflattering photo and searched the known accomplices for a lead. A Marabel Massimiliano (likely a cousin or sister), an Alexander Massimiliano, Martin Russo, and so on. No one of real importance. Henry sighed and bit his lip. It seemed he would have to rely on Zabini, which he had not wanted to do at all.

And then a name caught his eye.

"That one," he said to Marks, asking him to bring up the file. The picture was so like him that Henry felt as if he were seeing a ghost.

"You know this guy?" Donnelly asked, jutting a thumb at the screen.

Henry shook his head. "He's been dead a long time," he confessed softly.

A laugh from Donnelly made him start and glare at the Fed. He patted Henry on the back. "Sorry to break it to you, kid, but he got out on parole in Delaware about a month ago. Either someone's walking around in his skin, or he's very much alive."

Henry clenched his teeth, staring at the picture of Francis Gabriel, a bit older, now that Henry was really looking, and undoubtedly still alive, and a known associate of the man nicknamed Ammon. His jaw cracked under the pressure, and fury made his vision a virulent red.


	20. Chapter Nineteen

**A/n**: I want to thank everyone for reviewing. Thirty reviews last chapter? I was so very flattered, really guys. The response I'm getting is above and beyond the call of duty, I truly appreciate it! So, as a present, I give you _this _chapter. Not only are Harry's intentions for the world revealed, but a certain someone and a certain other someone are going to have *ahem* relations, and to top this epic chapter off-there is mention of the return of someone we all know and love. Enjoy!

A Few Responses: kantarose: Thank you, darling! Hope you like this one! I think you will. Ncgal: Nope, Francis is still alive and kicking. Although for how long is the real question. OMG. Happy belated birthday! What day was it? Seriously, you're a July baby too? Sweet! Want a B-day story? I'm writing a thank you story for Airborn-love, but I'm always in the mood for a one-shot. Your wish is my command, darling. Happy Birthday, again, Ncgal! Bookworm: can you believe I _forgot _this was on AFF? For shame. Thanks for reminding me!

Dedication: to **The Iza **for recommending PW in her chapter (which I haven't reviewed yet because I'm a retard). Go read her fic! It's on my favorites and it is absolutely hilarious. To **Amazonia** for looking this over for me (love!) and check out the awesome poem she wrote me in the review area! To **Ralia** for the excellent insight, and to everyone that reviewed last chapter to making this update late. Responding takes me hours because I waffle.

Warnings for this chapter: **slash** (not very graphic, don't report my ass), lots of talking, language, mentions of violence.

* * *

Pistol Whipped

Chapter Nineteen

Harry arrived back to the school before sunrise. He wished that he could say he was in a good mood, especially considering the excellent news McAllister had given him before his leave taking, but he would be lying to himself.

Apparently, Choi had finally seen the logic in taking up with Frank, and, though this was supposed to be a momentous occasion, it did not lift Harry's dour spirits. Frank had asked about his very obvious frostiness, and when he hadn't been forthcoming as to the cause, they had left each other somewhat uneasily. Donnelly had been shocked at Harry's abrupt departure as well, and he'd wanted to explain himself, wanted it to not affect him, but it did.

He didn't want to think about that, though. He pushed the day's events out of his mind as best as he could. He wouldn't think about it. _Not yet. _

The last thing Frank had said to him before he'd left was to watch out for the storm, which had started to rage just as Harry emerged from the manor. The wind had been terrible, with a gale fit to blow him away. It was marked by rain that didn't seem to know where it wanted to go as it was pulled in every direction by the unrelenting gust. Harry's hair was therefore in much disarray, sticking up at all angles and wet with water. To his consternation, the weather followed him from New York to Scotland, where the water fell in sheets, and the air tasted of the promise of snow.

He was traipsing through that torrential nonsense now, his magic keeping the heavy downpour from soaking him completely, but doing very little by way of stopping the mud from caking onto his shoes. Harry stopped briefly to watch as a string of lightning touched ground a few miles away, a sharp clap of thunder following it just as another flash gave way to a rolling boom. In that brief moment, he felt a rush of thick power assault him so heavily that he gasped for breath for a moment. Light illuminated the sky so like a powerful Lumos, and so close were the noises like an explosion of mortar, that he almost missed what he saw next; there was something in the clouds, something in the dark waves of the sky.

"Please don't let it be a burning bush," he whispered to himself sarcastically, and then he narrowed his eyes and looked closer. His holy image had wings? He broke into a jog just as Bo landed in front of the main doors, where Dumbledore, Snape, and McGonagall were standing with their wands outstretched. Bo gave a magnificent roar, no doubt interrupting dinner, and Harry laughed breathlessly to see the professors' steps back.

"Bo!" he called out, nearly skidding to a stop when his boots slid on the mud. When he made it to Bo's side, he placed a hand on his flank and smiled. "I thought you were something holy, my dear," he teased.

Bo hissed out a laugh and nudged Harry with his snout. "I hope you aren't too disappointed, human father," he responded, flaring his nostrils as the dragon equivalent of _fuck you_.

"Cheek," Harry told him, tapping his nose. "I could never be disappointed with you."

He turned, not in the least bothered, and motioned for the professors to drop their weapons. "You can relax now," he said sneeringly.

"Does this magnificent creature belong to you, Harry?" Dumbledore queried with a smile. Harry nodded, thinking it rather funny the old man would think a dragon _belonged_ to anyone. From beside him, Bo snorted heatedly but ignored the comment.

"This is Bo," Harry introduced. "He's an Antipodean Opaleye, according to Charlie."

"I am _no _such thing!" Bo snapped, affronted. "I'm God, you just told me so," he sniffed.

Harry laughed, wrapping his arms around Bo's neck.

"You _can't _domesticate dragons," Snape spoke up, looking as cross as usual. "It's impossible!"

"Well, I wouldn't want to prove your theory fallacious there, professor," Harry said with a smile. "So I'm quite glad to say that Bo isn't domesticated at all."

"What is 'domesticated,' human father?" Bo asked him with a curious tilt of his head. The rain didn't seem to bother him at all, which was lucky for everyone but Harry, who was still being pounded by wet and cold. Bo seemed to notice this, and, while giving him an apologetic look for not realizing sooner, he raised a wing up to shelter Harry from the wind hitting his back and the water coming down on his body. Harry patted him on the side in thanks.

"It means you're a pussy, Bo," he explained.

The dragon snarled at the professor, who froze. "I am not a cat!" he hissed.

Harry couldn't help but laugh at that, and placed a calming hand on Bo's neck. "I remember telling you," he said to Bo, "not to come here unless it was an emergency."

Bo looked sheepish for half a moment. "Well, Gringotts was attacked last night, but your wards held, and Griphook wanted me to come and thank you."

Harry raised his eyebrows.

"Oh, bully that," Bo cursed uncharacteristically, "I just wanted to see you."

Reaching out to bring Bo's head to him, he stroked the dragon's pearly scales and murmured, "I'm glad to see you as well, dearest."

Bo purred. "Perhaps I can stay for a while?" he asked hopefully.

Harry didn't say anything, but he turned back to the professors and gave them a brief nod. "Well, then." He raised his voice and said, "can Bo terrorize the Forbidden Forest for a few days, headmaster?"

"He may stay," Dumbledore said, a crease between his bushy eyebrows. "But I expect no terrorizing. Might you advise Bo to steer clear of the Centaur herd that lives in the forest?"

"Headmaster-" Snape started quite alarmed, but Dumbledore motioned for his silence. Harry gave Snape a teasing look at the headmaster's bid that the Potion's Master _shut the fuck up_ and received a scathing glare in return.

"How's that, Bo?" he turned to his companion. "Don't eat the Centaurs."

Bo tossed his head. "They taste like poop, anyway," he admitted.

"You will be alright in the storm?"

A loud snort was his answer, and with a jolt of his huge body, Bo was up in the air and making for the dark forest in the distance. Harry watched him go, missing him already.

"A cup of tea, Harry?" Dumbledore suggested when Bo had safely disappeared into the skyline.

"I'd like to be out of the rain, yes," he agreed with a smile, walking towards the man. He was sure the look in Dumbledore's eyes was not only one of curiosity, but one of suspicion as well, as they trudged up to his office.

.o00o.

"My first question," Dumbledore began, "is whether or not Dragon's speak is the language of lizards or of snakes?"

Snape, who had followed them like a sullen (and kicked) puppy, sat himself down on the plump chairs with an angry scowl. McGonagall had bade them all goodnight, casting a look at Harry that suggested he was toeing the line with her, and, though he had yet to talk to her (much), her glare intimidated him far more than Snape's did.

"A dragon is a lizard!" Snape insisted, amusing Harry at the same time.

"Ah," Dumbledore retorted. "But lizards are reptiles just the same." He bestowed a short glare upon Snape that insinuated they were trying their best to keep something from Harry, but since he knew exactly what they were talking about, anyway, he yawned.

"I'm curious, as well," the headmaster continued, "as to where you met the delightful creature?"

"His name is Bo," Harry corrected him without malice. "And attempting to steal from Gringotts is where I met him. I met Bo's father, who gave me Bo to take care of."

"A domesticated dragon," Snape said again with a huff.

"Honestly, professor," he turned to glare at Snape, giving him some of what the man had been dishing out all night. Snape looked taken aback, funnily enough. "You must be thick. Bo isn't domesticated. He just thinks I'm his 'human father,'" he explained waspishly.

"Dragons are indeed very protective of their kin," Dumbledore mentioned calmly.

"If you can speak to dragons, the Dark Lord can as well!" Snape suddenly shouted, and even the headmaster's sharp "Severus!" did not quiet his rage.

"Parseltongue," Harry said before the angry man could go on, "Is the language of snakes. Dragons can talk to whomever they want, but when a human is able to speak with them via telepathy, they call them Dragon Speakers. Voldemort is not a Dragon Speaker. He is gifted with Parseltongue, as am I."

"You're-"

"I can speak to snakes," Harry interrupted Snape. "Which is not shocking, considering I have a piece of the Dark Lord's soul inside of me."

Snape sat forward, unsure of what to say, and likely too shocked to speak anyway. Dumbledore did not move at all, his bright blue eyes were on Harry as if he were the most interesting piece of art in the world.

"You know," Dumbledore finally spoke, and his voice was hard and not at all as congenial as before.

"I've suspected for quite awhile," he confessed, gazing at his hand in disinterest. "Ever since you informed me of the existence of the Horcruxes."

"Perhaps I should not have underestimated your intelligence, my boy," Dumbledore said, sitting back with a sad sigh. "I apologize."

Harry nodded. "I wouldn't have realized if it weren't for your explanation of the Horcruxes, and then the Parseltongue ability and the scar were more than a bit tell-tale, of course."

"And are you-" the old man stopped and looked pensively concerned. "Are you accepting of the circumstances?" he finished.

_You only want relief_, Harry though with a cool fury. _Relief that you will not have to kill me to destroy the Dark Lord. Because you _will_ try and kill me if he doesn't, you fucker. _

"I am," Harry said instead, quite calm. "One man's life means little when the world stands the chance of dying in his place. It is understandable, you see, and I am not as selfish as I seem."

He could feel Snape's disbelieving stare settling on the side of his head, it was that heavy, but he ignored it and gazed at Dumbledore – who was trying to hide his pleasure at Harry's altruistic values – instead. The headmaster dipped his head, either out of respect for Harry's decision or mocking his position. Harry didn't know which. What he did know, above all else, was that Dumbledore was an unmitigated asshole, and that no matter how much the old man thought he had the upper hand, he didn't. Harry smiled at him in a resigned way, and thought, _bang, bang, I shot you down. _

.o00o.

The dismissal had been for the both of them, and it pissed Severus off like no other. Potter strolled beside him, that infernal smirk on his face. The only sounds in the hall were their footsteps and the swish of cloth that accompanied them. Severus hated that, even after slogging through the mud and rain and given a Drying charm (which usually left most people scruffy and dirty looking), the boy remained his usual perfect and handsome self. The fly-away hair and messy clothing looked _good_ on him, goddamn it! He had always hated the Potter hair, however, but not even James Potter could pull it off as well as his son did, a thought that only pissed Severus off more.

"Let's talk," Potter said, speaking up in that casual way of his, not even glancing at Severus to see if he was paying attention.

"I can't imagine what we would need to speak about, Mr. Potter," he said with a sneer, and his tone was filled with so much anger that Potter finally looked at him.

"I'm sure you're far more intelligent than that," he said in such away that Snape had a very hard time not offing himself right in the hall. The boy was a menace. He pictured Potter, then, with the Dark Lord, considerably more than allies, in all probability (the boy was a whore), and he felt the sour taste of vomit travel up his throat. He knew what Potter wanted to talk about, but like _hell _did he want to oblige.

"My room, then," Potter said without waiting for his answer. Severus knew the harassment wouldn't end if he did not follow; he knew that if Potter had it in him to tell the Dark Lord he was a spy, then all would go to the dogs. He knew, and so he let Potter lead him onward.

When they arrived at the portrait hole, Potter pushed it open without vocalizing the password. Severus shook his head but continued into the room, nonetheless. The rooms were standard, and not much lay around to mark the place as lived in. There was a map spread out on the desk along with a few books and papers, and a duffle coat hung behind the door. The fire was lit, and the heat of the room was comfortable rather than stifling. What made Severus start more than the sparse belongings in the room were the set of guns laid out on the sofa table.

He must have frozen for a moment because Potter sidled up to him. "You know what they are then," the boy said, and it wasn't a question.

"I do," Severus admitted quickly, anyway. "What need do you have for them?" he asked angrily, obviously feeling threatened.

Potter grinned teasingly, and nudged him a bit. "We'll get to that," was all he would say.  
Severus did not trust that smile at all, and felt he would be a fool to do so. He settled as elegantly as possible into a chair (what with nerves that shook his hands) and tried not to allow his face to confess his anxiety. Potter picked up on it right away, of course.

"Relax, will you?" he admonished the man. A glass of dry sherry was put into his hands, and, despite how much he disliked this boy, he had to commend the choice of drink. He watched as Potter sat across from him, swinging one leg over the other before taking out a cigarette and lighting it.

"Smoking and drinking, Potter?" he felt compelled to acknowledge the habits. "What would the headmaster say?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Potter snapped, and Severus scowled. "You're a spy for the light," the lad said suddenly, without any sort of warning preamble.

"I'm sure you were made aware of that from the Dark Lord, boy," he said.

"My name is _Harry_, please use it."

"I would not be so arrogant to assume informality."

"Whereas _boy_ garners no disrespect, I'm sure."

Severus was very, very angry now. "And what respect must I pay _you_, Potter? Perhaps I should prostrate like I do for the Dark Lord? Will that suffice?"

"If it pleases you to do so," Potter responded, smoke pooling out of his mouth in a slow wave. "You're a spy for the light," he said again, pointing at the man with his cigarette.

"Don't be redundant, Potter," Severus said tightly, and gave up ignoring the inviting drink by taking a sip. The heat from it was lovely as it slid down his throat.

"Your loyalty to Dumbledore is surprising," the boy commented, rising to refill his own drink. Severus took a long draft and motioned for Potter to top off his own, thankful for the liquid courage. "The man is old and foolish. He wagers too much with the lives of others," Potter said as he poured.  
Severus said nothing.

"But then," Potter went on, "The Dark Lord is just as blind to not see your affection for our dear headmaster."

"How big-headed of you," he said when he found his voice. "You seem so sure of my loyalty to Dumbledore-"

"You _are_ loyal to Dumbledore," Potter stopped him before he could continue. "You're a good spy, Snape, but I know liars." A slow smile spread across his face as he said, "I know, because I am one. Of the highest order, in fact." He took a sip of his drink, savoring it.

"Well," Severus said. He gritted his teeth and cleared his throat. "Well, then, my only response is to query why you have yet to tell the Dark Lord."

Potter laughed. "And give up such excellent blackmail?" he asked joyfully, and Severus stiffened. "You should know," he said once he'd stopped laughing, "I'm nowhere near as foolish as our two kings. Nowhere near as bound to rules."

"You forget that I could simply tell Dumbledore where _your _loyalties lie, Potter."

"Ah, but you won't do that," he countered slyly. "For one, there's the prophecy. You want him dead just as much as anyone else on the side of the light. Dumbledore would try something sneaky to keep me under his control, and I would have to retaliate. Who knows if my _loyalties_ may commit a nasty switcheroo. You don't seem like a gambling man."

Severus grinded his teeth some more, and his hands were too tight around his glass. "And number two?" he asked without wanting to know.

"I don't have a number two," the boy said, grinning, "Can you think of one for me?"

He ignored Potter's games. "I cannot decide whether you are strategic or simply cruel," Severus observed him harshly. "Knowing your father, as I did, I would say the latter. He died for a reason, you know. He died because he was too arrogant to run."

"So his courage condemned him?" Potter asked with curiosity, rather then the fury Severus had expected. "And I suppose cowardice would have made him look better."

"Sense is _not_ cowardice!"

"No, it is sense," the boy said slowly, "but what separates the cowards from the courageous has nothing to do with logic or illogic, and everything to do with what there is to live or die for. My father may have been conceited, but he died in the most unselfish way possible: Protecting his family." Potter paused to take a drag, then said, "Not that I condone that sort of selflessness; it does nothing to resonate through the eyes of the enemy, and James Potter is not the man we think of before we sleep at night."

Severus chose to remain silent, honestly alarmed that the boy would be so cold about his own father's death.

"We've gotten off track here," Potter suddenly said, leaning forward to stub out his cigarette. "I believe we were talking about blackmail."

"You would have been a Slytherin," Severus muttered underneath his breath, but Potter heard him anyway and started to laugh.

"You know," the boy observed, chuckling. "I do believe this little war between the Dark Lord and Dumbledore is really just a fight between houses. You Hogwarts people think in terms of dorms named after a bunch of ancient buggers who were insane enough to create moving _fucking _staircases to doors that won't open." By the end of it, Potter sounded bitter, and Severus tried not to be offended that the boy obviously hated the only place Severus had ever called home. He _was _offended about another unthinking comment, however, so he focused on that instead.

"A _little war_, Potter? I've been fighting this _little war _– bearing the casualties – since I was your age. I would not be so quick as to underrate my suffering in front of me," he told the lad furiously.

"I apologize for the truth," Potter said snidely, and Severus wanted to kill him. "You're wondering what I want for my silence."

"Please refrain from telling me _who I am _or _what I think_," he said, so upset now that his jaw almost cracked under the pressure.

Potter smiled. "Then let me tell you what _I'm_ wondering," he began, lighting another smoke. "What is the price of your loyalty?"

"Excuse me?"

"This war will be over very soon. You've picked the winning side, I'm sure you know. Another war

shall follow it. What will be your choice?"

"What_ other_ war, Potter?"

The boy straightened, and then leaned forward, his eyes so intense it made Severus uncomfortable. "The Dark Lord's folly is that he does not know when he is outnumbered. He believes Muggles inferior, but their numbers give them a much higher advantage. They are not as unintelligent as he thinks," he stopped and sat back again. "I would have magical people understand their place. I would have Muggles understand their place as well."

"You want to expose our world to theirs," Severus said quietly, feeling the panic at what Potter was telling him begin to rise. "The Dark Lord has similar sentiments," he snapped wildly.

"No," Potter said sharply. "He dislikes them, he doesn't understand them. He's afraid of their power."

"You're an idiot," he exhaled and shook his head, glaring. "By exposing our world you would not prevent destruction! Do you think peace would ever be had, then, you_ bloody fucking _idiot?"

Potter stared at him levelly. "I don't want peace," he said. "I want destruction." And he said it so calmly, so silently cruel, that Severus felt goose bumps travel up his arms. "Only in destruction can there be reconstruction," Potter told him. "I want a _war_, and I _will_ have one."

Severus knew then what Potter was saying to him. "You hate wizards," he said breathlessly.

"I don't hate," the boy said, waving a hand. "I am desperate, yes. I am ambitious, no doubt. What you should be worried about is whether or not I'm capable. Do you understand how capable I am?"

Severus turned his eyes to his lap briefly, took a drink, and then looked up a bit mockingly. "Oh, yes," he said to Potter. "I'm beginning to understand."

"The world cannot function with such a divide; these worlds living together unequally-" Potter paused and snorted a bit. "If magic wants its dominion, it will have to fight for it."

"Your arrogance knows no bounds," Severus snarled at him. "What makes you think I won't go to the Dark Lord to inform him about your plans to destroy him and continue his work after he's gone?"

"Because he would listen to me rather than you, and because you're intrigued, despite yourself," Potter smiled sagely.

"_Horrified, _Potter," he corrected, and then looked away. "What do you want from me?"

Instead of answering, the boy rose to replenish his glass and look out the window. It was still raining, but the lightning had stopped. "I want your loyalty," Potter said to the glass, fogging it up. "What does it cost?"

"I don't want another war," Severus divulged. "Not after this one."

"Then you'll help pave the way for it," Potter suggested, and Severus tried very hard not to be insulted. He failed rather brilliantly. "You have no choice. If you must know, it matters very little to me who wins this battle. It is irrelevant. Both sides will fall in the end."

"The Muggles may outnumber wizards," he countered savagely. "But they cannot hold out against magic, _you know this_. It would be a _massacre_."

Potter turned around, his eyes bright with humor and his cigarette half way to his lips. He motioned towards the guns on the table. "I've evened the odds," he said.

Severus looked at the weapons in question, frowning as Potter continued. "Modified guns. A way for Muggles to wield magic just as easily."

"Do you know what you've done?" he whispered. "Do you know what you're _doing_?" He looked up at the boy.

"A war between worlds," Potter said casually, a glazed look in his eyes; whether it was one of ambition or the simple pleasure of promised chaos, Severus didn't know. "I know what I'm doing, professor," Potter said. He snapped out of it and turned to Severus once more. "I am so very capable," he said in a whisper.

"I cannot consciously let this happen," Severus affirmed, his hands shaking. The jittery feeling in his heart sped up at Potter's delighted laugh.

"You'll have to," Potter told him. "You're bound not to say anything, write anything, or show anything about this conversation. The spell has just finished."

Severus swallowed. His eyes widened as he looked inside of himself and noticed the tight bind over the memory of the evening's activities. How had the boy…?

"Don't look so shocked. What do you think I've been doing these years away from the Wizarding World? Twiddling my thumbs?" He laughed again, drinking from his glass. "I've learned quite a bit about magic. About people that hold value in this world. My connections far outreach the Dark Lord's and Dumbledore's. As does my power, though not nearly in raw magic. I find I don't need it. I haven't wasted my time, Snape. One man cannot stand against the world. He may die thinking himself a hero, but history's legends are a hit and miss. My father is an excellent example."

He toasted Severus then, and that cruel smile was still on his face. "If you're going to make waves, make sure they're motherfucking big ones," he cheered, and drank.

"You are infuriating," he said, when he meant _you are frightening. You frighten me. _

"Thank you."

"Why are you telling me this?" _Why me, Potter? Why have you done this?_

"Because I want your loyalty. I want you to know what's coming, because you deserve it," he stopped himself and sighed. "Imagine you could predict the future, imagine it being something great. I won't lie, I have no reservations. I have only ambition. 'You cannot have power for good without having power for evil too. Even mother's milk nourishes murderers as well as heroes'(1)."

"You'll have me spy on Dumbledore and the Dark Lord…for you," Severus guessed, and he seemed to be correct when Potter nodded.

"For your silence," he continued. "And if I'm to believe you truly have no reservations, for my life as well."

"Now you understand."

Severus rose, placing his cup down gently, and made his way towards the portrait hole. Potter did not try and stop him. He stepped outside, breathing deeply in an attempt to quiet his thumping heart and rattled nerves. "This is madness, I hope you know," he said, still lingering in the doorway with his back to Potter. "You must be mad," he breathed.

Potter's voice was cutting, like knives hitting Severus up and down his spine and rendering him paralyzed. "Think of everything after the coming misery and it is easier to bear," he said. And then, mockingly, seductively, to show that he was absolutely in control, the boy purred, "If you are prepared."

Severus slammed the portrait closed and shivered in the cold corridor. The silence, so suffocating and heavy, was made worse now that the rain had stopped.

.o00o.

"How's my uncle?" was the first thing Blaise blurted when Harry entered the Room of Requirement.

Harry took the cigarette away from his mouth quickly so that he could snap sourly, "Hello to you too."

Draco nudged Blaise, who did little more than sulk at Harry's admonishing glare, in the side. "He's fine," Harry said, walking forward. "Working off his debt to me, at the moment."

"If you've made him some kind of slave-" Blaise started, but stopped after another dig into his side.

"He's not a slave at all," Harry reassured the boy sincerely. "His mind is his own, so much so, in fact, that he glares at me every time we're in the same room. He's free enough to be angry, so that should be enough comfort for you."

Blaise scoffed, crossing his arms. "You've been avoiding us," he accused, his back ramrod straight against the sofa.

"Unintentionally," he half-apologized, sitting down with a comfortable sigh. "I've been rather busy this week. I've been remiss in visiting you. You have questions, I'm guessing?"

The Room of Requirement was emulating the Slytherin common room once again, as comfortable as usual, but quite tense. Blaise did not look happy, and neither did Draco, but Harry was unsure as to why the blond would be so mad in the first place. Draco did look rather handsome sitting there, though, much more composed than the last time they had met. Harry admired him blatantly until the boy flushed and his simmering anger turned to fury.

"Why did you take my task away from me?" he asked, his mouth in a hard line; his tone expressing barely-withheld violence.

Harry knew it would piss the boy off, but he did it anyway. "Pardon?" he asked showily.  
Draco narrowed his eyes. "You're to kill Dumbledore at the end of the year. You broke the Unbreakable Vow, however impossible it was to do so…you _took _my task."

"I hadn't realized you wanted the job so much," Harry admitted a bit bemusedly.

"My family…I was supposed to do it for my family."

"Ah, yes. Hoping, no doubt, to get your mother and father out of that house, or to possibly expel the Death Eaters from your property," he said in an understanding way.

Draco looked alarmed then. "No, I don't mind them there-" he began, but Harry cut him off.

"You were reluctant to join the Dark Lord," he said abruptly, and when he was sure Draco wouldn't say anything for a while, he summoned a decanter of scotch and poured a few drinks. Tension, to Harry, was an awful setback in diplomacy. He handed Draco a glass, who nodded his thanks in a way that said he wasn't thankful at all. When he handed one to Blaise, the boy simply stared at him and made no move to grab it.

"Here, then," Harry said impatiently, taking a sip and then holding it out again. "No poison." Blaise took it. "But a modicum of trust might not be unappreciated."

Draco scoffed at Harry's comment about trust, but he chose to ignore it. When they were all a bit more relaxed, Harry made to say something but was cut off. He tried hard not to be sullen as the blond said,

"You work for the Dark Lord."

"I work for myself," he snapped back. "And is it so surprising that I would rather him be an ally than an enemy?"

"Yes," Draco bit out harshly, taking another sip to satisfy the burn. "The savior of the Wizarding World, the beacon for the light, their _boy-who-lived_…you're none of that. It is _surprising_."

"More than that, I should hope," Harry pointed out, smiling in amusement. "I hope those aren't the titles I'll be called for ages to come."

"My uncle called you Brooks. I have no delusions about my uncle's business in the Muggle world. You know him, and so you're a part of it," Blaise said, finally adding his valued two cents. Harry admired how sharp these two were for a moment.

"Okay, clever clogs," he said to Blaise, raising both his up hands in mock surrender. "You've got me there," he joked.

The silence after his comment was ridiculous, and he flopped his hands down and rolled his eyes. "No sense of humor, eh?" he asked sardonically. "There's such a thing as being too cautious, you know."

"_You _would have _us_ trust you, just like that," Draco said waspishly, a fire in his eyes. "Like a common Gryffindor!"

Having had enough, Harry lit another smoke swiftly, took a draft that made his throat scratchy, and said, "I would have you trust me like a common man!" He sat back. "I'm not going to kill you; I'm not going to tell the Dark Lord shit about your loyalties, and, Blaise, that scotch isn't poisoned, _for the last time_. Please drink it before it gets stale."

Blaise grumbled, but took a sip anyway.

"Perhaps I should divulge the circumstances," Harry muttered to himself, loud enough for them to hear.

"At the moment," he said to them, "I work for the Dark Lord. At the moment, I also work for Dumbledore. My loyalties are to myself, and no one else. I don't dispose of useful people, and I see you both as _special interests._"

"I cannot possibly trust you," Draco said, his voice starting soft and increasing in volume. "You assume that we'll keep our silence about you working for yourself, as you say. You think you're being straightforward, Potter, but you're being vague as hell!"

"Draco, calm down…."

"_No_, shut up, Blaise!" Draco rose from his seat, placing down his glass, most probably to keep from throwing it. "Your stupid philosophical nonsense is giving me a headache! You don't work for them, you do work for them, which the hell is it? Can you answer my goddamn questions? Or are you too fucking _good for that_?"

Harry was shocked. "What is going on here?" he asked, addressing Blaise more than Draco.

"I _hate this_, Potter! I don't understand you, and yet you seem to understand us," Draco practically yelled. "Your holier-than-thou attitude pisses me the fuck off! You've taken my task…my only chance of survival. And I know – I _know –_ he told you to kill me. I know what happens next!"

Remaining motionless, Harry sat facing the boy with his glass in his hand and his eyes bright. Seemingly realizing that he'd gone around the bend for a moment there, Draco suddenly calmed, wide-eyed in panic, but did not sink into himself, choosing instead to stand before Harry with stubborn pride.

"Blaise," Harry finally said softly, not taking his stare away from Draco. "Would you mind letting Draco and I speak in private?"

"You're joking," Blaise objected, but Draco interrupted him sharply.

"Go on, Blaise," he said, and the anger was back. Harry could taste it, a mix of power and fury and desperation. It was thick in his mouth beside the harsh burn of his drink. "Let him do this without a witness," Draco said mockingly. "Let him be the coward he really is."

Blaise hesitated until his best friend turned around and hollered, "Go!"

"I have no intention of hurting him," Harry said to Blaise as he made his way out. "He'll be back in less than an hour."

"Ha!" Draco scoffed a bit madly. "You're a laugh, Potter. Go on, Blaise, I'll see you _later_, won't I?"

The other boy twitched in front of the door, and then raised his head and flounced out, intending, no doubt, to wait outside.

"No witnesses, right?" Draco said to him once the entrance had closed. He took off his robes and his jumper, leaving him in slacks and a fitted white shirt. "I'm no bloody coward. Unlike you, Potter, I'll at least die a better man."

"Really?" Harry asked, putting his empty glass down.

"Honestly," Draco laughed to himself. "Perhaps I'll tell you just what I think of you, how does that sound?"

"I'm sure I have no choice as to listen or not," Harry raised an eyebrow.

"Right, you don't," Draco said, smiling. "I think you're an arrogant, self-obsessed brat, Potter. I think your delusions, and whatever stupid plans you think you have, are going to fail. I think-" he paused and stared at Harry intensely. "I think everything you hope for is a lie. I think you're _nothing_, however much you want to be _something_."

Harry remained still, stiff, his body straight and frozen. When Draco turned to him once more, his eyes like a storm, he felt himself shudder.

"I'm not a coward," the blond said, so seriously and so strongly that it sounded as though he had had an epiphany of sorts – as if Draco Malfoy _knew_ that any evidence to prove him a coward was irrelevant in this moment. That he was not afraid. "Do it," he whispered.

When Harry found that he could move his legs, he took three great steps to reach the Slytherin. He grasped Draco's face with his hands and kissed him.

The lips underneath his own did not respond immediately, but then Draco was spurred into action and his hands were on Harry's hips, bruising. He tore Harry's shirt from out of his jeans, practically clawing at Harry with his hands and his mouth. Harry reached for his pants, tugging them off harshly, and, as soon they pooled around Draco's legs, he felt his own drop. What little awkwardness that came from undressing was lost with the reawakening of the fury in Draco. He pushed Harry, his fingers harsh, his mouth biting and pulling. _Hating_.

Harry grasped the sides of his boxers and tore them down, and Draco's cock sprang free, long and beautiful and glistening. He dropped to his knees so heavily he was likely to have bruises later, and took the blond into his mouth. He tasted of soap and a hot musk, and Harry dragged his lips up the length, feeling the skin travel with him. Hearing Draco moan in anguished pleasure.

Impatiently, the blond raised Harry to his feet by his hair, wrenching it painfully. He kissed Harry again, tasting himself and the scotch the boy favored, and continued pulling on the hair at the back of Harry's neck painfully. Harry let it happen, enjoying the roughness usually unseen in Draco's sneering demeanor. His boxers were tugged off as well, and Draco crushed them together by grabbing Harry from behind and _shoving_ them into each other. It hurt as much as it felt wonderful.

They were on the floor in a flurry of limbs, Draco gathering them together to fall. He wanted it, wanted Harry so badly, and Harry thought it was safe to say he felt the same. But everything was so hot, and the sweat made them slick, shifting them away from each other, but the passion made them like glue – made them whole. Harry wondered, as he closed his eyes and let the bright lights of pleasure burst behind them, if afterward they would ever be able to tear apart.

Draco knew what he was doing. Perhaps he wasn't as polished as Harry was, but he certainly was knowledgeable in how to proceed without an hour of preparation or foreplay. The Room of Requirement, and by God was it an excellent and apt name, gave them what they required. Draco stretched Harry out at the same time as he threw a leg around Draco's shoulders, watching his own cock jerk as the blond's sharp jabs to his prostate hit him so hard it was almost painful.

Draco's fingers were trying their best to twist his insides, burn him from the inside out, and once the stimulation receded in favor of Draco's cock, Harry was sure he had never felt more impassioned. He _wanted _Draco inside him, wanted the secure feeling of flesh on flesh in the most intimate way possible. He wanted that spot to bloom into a coiled tightness in his stomach until it released like a wildfire and rendered him a screaming, blissful mess.

He was the one who crunched Draco forward with his legs and his hands, saying over and over, "I want, I want, I want." And when he was finally inside, Harry's lower body ignited, and his magic rose into the room and hovered. Rising to a peak, and waiting to drop.

Draco made a noise that sounded as though he were dying, and Harry looked up in glazed concern. A screen of blond hair met him, because the boy's eyes were hidden, as he arched his neck downward, lifting his body with his hands. Harry reached up to move the tresses away, and Draco looked at him. He was in pain.

"Fuck," Draco said before he could ask what was wrong. "_Fuck_, I want you."

And he moved; he moved so fast that Harry would be sore for weeks. The jabs touched him deep every time, sending running fires through him and tearing screams out of his mouth. Draco seemed set on having him holler, and he picked up the pace almost impossibly. He throttled Harry, and Harry took it and felt as though he were made to receive. Draco hitched both of Harry's legs around his waist and sat Harry down on his cock, and Harry choked, because it hurt and it burned and it felt so very good.  
His hair was torn back, his throat arched, and the force of it made him come. Harry came harder than he ever had, and he screamed his completion with a vigor that made him laugh. Draco tensed like a string pulled taut and came inside of him, adding to the relentless ferocity of the fire.

.o00o.

Laughing, he pulled a drag from his cigarette and coughed when Draco muttered under his breath, "Fucking whore."

Harry, assaulted by amusement once more, turned on his side to look at the boy, who laid exhausted (despite his age) next to him. The firelight from the room swathed Draco in a lovely golden glow, his eyes heady and shining with satisfaction. Harry laughed again.

"My plans won't fail, you know," he said conversationally. "And I may be a delusional, self-absorbed prat, but I'm one hell of a fuck. Am I right?"

Draco glared at him, his hair stuck to his forehead with dried sweat. "Full of yourself. I forgot to say you are almost ludicrously full of yourself," he complained.

Harry straddled him. "Not always," he confessed, his eyes shining. "Not all of the time." He grinned as Draco's cock came back to attention.

The look on the Slytherin's face was reluctant admiration, and Harry respected Draco's position in this. He stubbed out his smoke as the blond looked up at him carefully, breathing in and out deeply with withheld desire.

"I still hate you," Draco whispered.

Harry nodded solemnly. "It's understandable," he said congenially. "I know perfectly well how infuriating I can be."

"You strive to frustrate everyone," he countered but then immediately frowned. "But as a lover you're different. Why are you different?"

Leaning down, Harry breathed him in and then kissed him. "Because now you have something I need, because now-" he stopped and trailed the tip of his nose down Draco's cheek. "Now I want you as much as you want me."

"I can't trust you," Draco said softly, enjoying the tickle of a kiss on his face. He was trying hard to ignore Harry's arse on his cock.

Harry rose up and took Draco into him again, so quickly and silently and without warning that Draco swore he would have come right there had he had less control.

"Do you trust this?" Harry asked, moving a bit.

"The shagging?" Draco asked, oddly resistant to the other boy's movements. His hips betrayed him as he jostled Harry in his lap briefly, who moaned in appreciation. "I trust this," he said, thrusting again.

"Wonderful," Harry said breathlessly, and made good on his teasing.

.o00o.

Blaise wasn't happy with the both of them when they finally decided to leave the Room of Requirement. He took one look at Draco, who had a sloppy smirk on his face, and his shirt (always immaculate), which was wrinkled and not tucked in all of the way, and he knew. He glared at Harry furiously.

"You could have told me you were going to shag him, Potter," he snapped, turning on his heel to leave. They followed him down the corridor.

"I don't see Scotland Yard out here, Blaise," Harry mentioned as they strolled along. "Looks like you weren't _that _worried."

They stopped at where the hall split to go to the Great Hall or the dungeons. Blaise gave him an indifferent look. "I don't think you're done with us yet," he said, looking at Harry carefully. Looking through him. He very suddenly turned and left, and Draco and Harry watched him go silently.

"He's right, you know," Draco said.

Harry put his hands in his pockets and shrugged. "I'll see you later," he said to the blond.

"You can count on that, Potter," Draco snapped, and then he too left to go back down to the dungeons and try to forget that the incident in the Room of Requirement had ever happened, no doubt. Draco seemed like the sort of bloke that appreciated quite a lot of denial. Harry shook his head at the tense, retreating back, and flipped Draco the bird.

"Ungrateful asshole," he murmured, all of the sudden feeling neglected.

"Ah, Harry! Just who I wanted to see," Dumbledore said from behind him, and he pivoted to see the old man smiling at him gently. "Are you very busy?"

Harry immediately hesitated, the warning bells in his head going off, when he noticed that Dumbledore's normally happy-go-lucky twinkling was nowhere to be found. The headmaster looked quite put-upon, indeed.

"Is anything the matter, sir?" he asked, cagily.

"Well, yes," Dumbledore admitted, herding him towards the staircase that lead to his office. "Come, your godfather and a few others are in my office."

Harry didn't fancy having to deal with the Order, but followed the headmaster obediently. When they arrived, Sirius was pacing back and forth in front of Fawkes' perch, with the bird nowhere in sight. Remus Lupin sat rather tiredly on the other chair, and Harry briefly acknowledged the passing of the full moon two days ago. Snape sat stiffly in the chair beside him, watching Black's movements with dark, assessing eyes.

"Harry!" Sirius said when they came in. He gave Harry a one-armed hug that both shocked and amused him at the same time. Harry reminded himself to warn Sirius that hugs, however affectionate, weren't entirely well received. "How are you?" his godfather asked.

"I'm well, thank you," Harry said with a smile. He turned to Lupin. "Are you quite alright, Mr. Lupin?"  
Remus rose to shake his hand. "You make me sound so old," he said, the crows feet around his eyes crinkling in pleasure. "Please, call me Remus, and I am very well, thank you, Harry."

"Now that the pleasantries are over," Snape suddenly said, glowering at them all. "Perhaps we might tell Potter the reason for us being here."

"So impatient, professor," Harry teased.

"Yes, well," Dumbledore started, sitting down in his seat heavily. "I'm afraid there was an attack in London not three hours ago."

Harry was surprised; though the Dark Lord had mentioned there would be another attack soon, he hadn't disclosed where. "Were any Muggles injured?" he asked curiously.

"One hundred and twenty-five dead, so far," Sirius said severely. "They haven't counted all of the bodies yet."

"That's terrible," Harry muttered.

"When the Dark Lord attacked," Dumbledore continued, "there was some resistance from a group of wizards." The headmaster reached into the parchments stacked on his desk, shuffling them about. "We have recovered a photo from a Wizarding journalist onsite," he said, giving Harry the picture.

"Do you know anything about this man?" Dumbledore queried.

Snape scoffed from his seat, and Remus fidgeted.

"I don't see how he would, Albus," Sirius began, but Dumbledore raised a hand for silence as Harry sighed and gave him the photo back.

"His name is Victor Masimilliano."

"Masa-what?" Sirius blurted.

Harry crossed his legs. "Italian bloke. He's part of the MG," he divulged, looking for the world as if he didn't care.

"I'm afraid I'm not familiar with this… MG, did you say?" the headmaster prodded gently.

"The Mercenaries Guild," Harry explained shortly, quite surprised Dumbledore had never heard of them. "They're basically the government of mercenaries. They like to take care of wizards they think are out of hand."

"I see," the headmaster sighed. "I can see why they would have a problem with Voldemort."

"If you're thinking of an alliance, I wouldn't count on it," Harry warned him nonchalantly. "They're a ruthless bunch of blighters, excuse my language," he added, waving to Snape because he would be the only one to object. Snape scowled at him.

"How do you know them, Harry?" Sirius asked in befuddlement.

"Hearsay," Harry told them with a shrug. "They're common knowledge on the streets," he lied effortlessly.

"Thank you, Harry," Dumbledore said, smiling at him. "It seems Remus and Sirius have a lead, after all."

Dipping his head, Harry turned to the men as they rose to leave the office. "Be careful," he cautioned them, meeting their eyes. "They're not Death Eaters, but I think they may be worse."

Sirius nodded back at him, and he and Remus left as quickly as they had come. Harry wished them luck, because they would surely need it.

"The rest of the Order is helping the victims and trying their best to get poor Thamesmead back on its feet. Dreadful, simply dreadful," Dumbledore told him.

"Thamesmead?" Harry said, sitting up very suddenly.

"An odd place to attack, surely," Dumbledore extrapolated. "What was puzzling was that the Dark Lord went after a prison there."

"Belmarsh Prison," Snape clarified. "A place that holds the absolute dregs of society. They haven't rounded up the prisoners that escaped, so there are murderers and terrorists running about London as we speak. I don't think, headmaster," he said to Dumbledore, "that _dreadful_ is a strong enough word."

"Indeed," the old man agreed. "I fear the repercussions of this event."

Snape got up, seemingly tired of their conversation, and bowed shortly to Dumbledore. "We are agreed, headmaster?" he asked.

"Ah," Dumbledore smiled up at him pleasantly, twiddling his fingers through his beard. "Good luck to you, Severus."

The Potions professor flounced out of the room, glaring darkly, and Harry couldn't help but grin at his retreating back. He turned back to the headmaster, who looked very amused as well.

"I would ask you not to leave the school tonight, Harry," Dumbledore said softly. Harry's smile slid of his face, but he nodded his assent.

"Of course, headmaster," he conceded amiably.

"What of your connections, my boy?" Dumbledore started, looking concerned. He meant, of course, the hogwash question Harry was supposed to ask Frank about the Azkaban escapees. He knew exactly where the freed felons were, as Dumbledore likely knew, and Frank didn't even know what the fuck a Death Eater was, anyway.

"They haven't heard anything, I'm sorry to say," he said contritely.

"I understand," Dumbledore said, as if Harry needed forgiveness for doing something wrong. Inwardly, Harry rolled his eyes.

Thinking it as good a time as any, Harry needled, "Can I leave tomorrow night, headmaster? I have a few friends in Thamesmead; I want to make sure they're alright."

"Of course, my boy!" he said joyfully, a perfect hint of worry for people he had never met displayed in those bright blue eyes. Harry suddenly hated Dumbledore quite a lot, and he didn't usually _hate _very many.

"Thank you, sir," Harry nodded and prepared to leave. He rose and let himself out of the office, knowing that Dumbledore had felt that something was off about their encounter. The old man had been too observant tonight. He would have to be more careful.

When he reached his rooms he saw the crow at the window and couldn't help but smile. It tapped over and over until Harry let it in, and even then it took a good swipe at his hand. He took the letter off of its leg and unrolled the short message (as the Dark Lord was prone to write very little). He smiled at the words and remembered the occasions when he had planted the seed.

"_I don't see why they would target me otherwise," he responded helplessly. "I want them dead for putting Denny in prison. I know he's just a Muggle to you, but he took care of me when no one else would and-"  
_

"_You needn't explain it to me," the Dark Lord interrupted sibilantly. "I can see how much he means to you, Harry. By default, he is more than just a Muggle."  
_

"_Do you know where he is?"  
_

"_I know where he is," Harry gazed at him sadly, "But I can't get him out."  
_

The note was crinkled from the wind, but Harry spread it out to read it fully. The words, like the memories, would perhaps stay in his mind for ages to come. He congratulated himself silently.

_For you. Go find him.  
_

_-LV  
_

Sleet fell across the windows, picking up again as the storm circled overhead. Harry went over to the window and watched it fall, wondering how green the grounds would be in the morning. Wondering what would grow. He smiled into the darkness of the night, and whispered to the rain, "_Denny_."

* * *

(1)- George Bernard Shaw – _Major Barbara [Act III]_


	21. Chapter Twenty

A/n: I'm going to get cross here. Don't assume I don't know what I'm doing, it's insulting. You know who you are. I don't want to hear any complaints about the Henry/Harry switch off in this chapter. You should be used to it by now. I'm tired of people whining about it. To those that don't, I love you.

On a lighter note, thanks for the wonderful reviews! This is late because I was responding to you guys and like I said last time, I tend to waffle a lot in the responses. I'm off to a concert now, have a great week everybody!

A Few Responses: Tara: thanks love! Randy13: you waited so long for that slash. I'm glad it was all that you wanted and more :p Kantarose: You're so right. I always have a card up my sleeve. I'm crazy like a fox, lol. I think you'll really like Voldemort in this chapter, he starts to be a little more intimidating than usual. Perhaps he senses Harry is playing him? Good luck to the man, ha. Oh, and of course the shmex was good. Shmex is always good. Love ya, Kantarose! Carinny: Ha! But not at the same time I hope. It's not full on incest, but it's pretty close. Ncgal: I'm on it like white on rice! It may take me a little bit, but the story will be a thank you to you and a happy b-day shout out, how's that? Ooh, if I didn't have to work so diligently on PW every week, I'd write you a million stories, love. Lee: Thank you! Harry won't die in the end of this. No, that would be a cop out. Causing all that trouble and then being granted the mercy of death? For shame. Glad you like it so far!

Dedication: To Amazonia (as always) for being the greatest, greatest, greatest. To crazychick23 for her excellent reviews every week. To the reviewers, who gave me a whopping thirty messages in seven days. Thank you so much!

Warnings for this chapter: language, racism, slurs, and violence.

* * *

Pistol Whipped

Chapter Twenty

Rashidi's black eyes seemed to hold little else but contempt. After the man had expressed his disdain in regards to the 'dirty and uncivilized metropolis' of New York, they had fallen in a sort of competitive silence to see who could express their personal disparagements better. Rashidi Shad wasn't a fool, and despite his dislike for Frank McAllister, he could see the benefit of an alliance with what McAllister represented. It was, most likely, the main reason for his discontent. As an equally powerful trafficker, Frank understood how frustrating another man's advantages could be.

Rashidi hadn't drunk his bourbon, though he had accepted the drink from Frank with little hesitation. Frank tried not to be offended.

"There will be no fifty-fifty," Rashidi suddenly broke the quiet. His accent bled through his words, making them sound gravelly and clipped. "I make profit, you use men."

"As agreed," Frank said a bit impatiently. "And you would have the use of our weaponry, of course."

"I am curious about these guns," Rashidi said, finally taking a sip of his drink. Frank frowned at the man as he continued. "The black market speaks of them as the new liquid, but they have not gotten any product."

Frank moved in his chair uncomfortably. "The inventor kept them under lock and key," he confessed, but only because, in this case, the truth did him no harm.

"I want to meet this inventor," he demanded, setting down his glass and crossing his legs. Frank pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows.

"You will," he assured, though not entirely sure he could meet that particular request. Then, of course, the wards went off, and he nearly laughed aloud. Henry always had the best timing, and Frank didn't want to know what would have happened had Rashidi been shit out of luck. He smiled. "Rather soon, you'll meet him," he toasted Rashidi.

Like clockwork, the door to his office opened, and Henry stepped inside. "Hello," he greeted them, noticing Rashidi quickly and not seeming a bit surprised. He nodded respectfully. "Mr. Shad, a pleasure." The boy smiled and took his hand.

"You are?"

"Henry Brooks," he introduced before sitting down comfortably to face them both.

"This is the inventor of the weapons we were talking about," Frank said freely, and cast a quick look at Henry to see if he had broken some sort of unspoken rule. Henry smiled and dipped his head in acquiescence.

Sitting back down carefully, Rashidi looked at Henry with an intense gaze. "You are young," he said after his perusal had ended.

"I am that," Henry responded, laughingly.

"Too young to be a man, too young to make weapons of terrible power."

Henry laughed at that, unable to help himself. "That's what they're calling the guns on the black market, then? Impressive."

Rashidi watched him very carefully as he shifted in his seat. Knowing the man's glare was meant to intimidate, Henry shook off the chary watching and nodded to no one in general. "I hope Frank has explained what the alliance entails," he said casually.

"Yes," the man affirmed, looking hesitant. "But this has never happened before, you should know. I do not make pacts with rival lords."

"Frank needed quite a bit of persuasion as well," Henry confessed teasingly, sitting back more comfortably. "Are we clear on what you will receive if we create this union of sorts?"

"Power," Rashidi said, though he sounded skeptical. "Uninhibited trafficking while plans are in play. Your boss speaks heavy words. To rule, he says. To conquer, he promises." He waved a hand toward Frank, and grumbled, "All very vague."

Frank huffed as Henry grinned. "There's a need to be vague, Mr. Shad. We won't need to be ambiguous later. I'm not fan of it, myself," he explained.

"You can make such ridiculous promises, then?" he sniffed, straightening against the chair stiffly. "I don't intend to insult, Mr. Brooks, but I think you're bluffing."

Though Frank prickled at being called a liar, Henry simply nodded and hummed a bit in the back of his throat. "Right, it does sound like bullshit, doesn't it? I'll beg for your trust, though, sir." He dipped his head and shook a finger. "Because I'm going to show you the weapons," he said with intent.

Rashidi raised his chin, anxious, curious, and incredulous all at once. "My men will accompany me," the man demanded.

"_No_," Henry refused sharply, sounding much sterner than he had wanted to be. "This isn't a game, Mr. Shad. I beg for your trust. I _cannot_ have this out and about because one of your men is a bloody jabber jaw. I'm going to entreat that you use some _tact_, sir."

"You have insulted me," Rashidi told him, obviously expecting some sort of an apology. Henry raised an eyebrow, and though they were a culture apart, Rashidi understood what the expression meant. Loud and clear, Brooks was telling him to _suck it up_.

"One of my men, then," he tried, bristling.

"_No_," he objected again, harsher this time. "Us three," Henry said, pointing to them without care. "That's it. There won't be any more attempts at _negotiating_."

It took quite a while for Rashidi to agree, but he finally drained his glass and nodded in compliance. Henry smiled, and rose to lead the way. Rashidi motioned to his guards once they passed them in the hall, and though they seemed wary at the order to stay behind, they did not follow. When they reached the parlor, Henry opened the door for them both and trailed along after them.

Before he could address Rashidi, Frank grasped his arm and tightly and whispered, "I didn't expect you. Is something wrong?"

Henry merely smirked and patted his cheek. "I'm well, Frankie," he said, and when the man wasn't comforted, Henry smiled fully and ran his hand down the light stubble. "I promise," he soothed.

Frank opened his mouth to say something, but their guest spoke instead. "You are together," Rashidi observed, swinging a hand at them.

"We're _business _partners," Frank corrected him gruffly, and Henry noticed Rashidi relax minutely.

"Would there be a problem if Frank and I were more?" Henry asked circumspectly, ignoring Frank's nudge to his side.

Rashidi stared at him. "We are not here to speak of _that_," he snapped. "Show me these weapons you boast about."

"Intolerance breeds injustice, Mr. Shad," Henry said, simmering but not in a rage. "I make no secret of my preferences, and I don't intend to any time soon."

"Perhaps in this world you wish to mold," Rashidi retorted waspishly, "there is no room for _unnaturalness_."

"God, _fuck_ this guy," Frank cursed underneath his breath.

Henry tilted his chin up and glared. "There will be plenty of room for lenience, _sir_. I also find your prejudices ironic given how people of color are treated in the western world," he noted blandly.

"Ha!" Rashidi openly laughed at him. "In Africa, boy, we are _not_ the minority. You call us _niggers_ here, don't you? How is that insulting to me? I am not from _your world_."

Frank scoffed. "Then what the fuck do we need _you_ for, if you're from another world?" he asked mockingly. "We don't need you to fight for ours. Fuck your country, anyway!"

"You have insulted me!" Rashidi repeated, standing to his full height of six feet. It didn't intimidate them at all, no matter how big Rashidi really was.

"I'll insult you all I want," Frank practically yelled. "You're in my house, you bastard, and since you're unable to treat us with respect, I'll ask you to show your black ass out!"

"_Frank_!" Henry scolded him, honestly aghast.

"You have insulted me for the last time!" Mr. Shad shouted, preparing to howl for his guards, no doubt. Henry looked between them both and quickly jumped in.

"Wait, wait, _wait_!" he said, raising his voice. He took a breath when Frank and Rashidi glared at him. "Just…everyone calm down, alright?"

"_He-_" Frank began, but Henry cut him off.

"Shut up," he told the disgruntled man, rather askance at how quickly the meeting had gone south. "Shut up, Frankie. _Please_."

He turned back to Rashidi and lowered his arms, which he had flung out in defense should the two get into a fistfight. "Mr. Shad," he started, swallowing. "I apologize for not understanding you sooner. If my sexuality offends you, I'll be sure to keep the evidence of it well out of sight. We _do _need you. You're the most powerful man in your country. I've heard how well your army maintains the business you built from nothing. When I first had Frank contact you, I was blind to how you truly work. For that, I am sorry," he stopped and cleared his throat.

"Frank," he said, turning to his partner. "You owe Mr. Shad an apology as well. We did not take into consideration the cultural differences that separate us. I cannot agree with the assumption that Mr. Shad is exempt from fighting. His world is still our world, after all. You have degraded him when he did not deserve it, Frankie."

"He degraded _us_!" Frank argued, jabbing a finger into his own chest and throwing a furious look at Rashidi.

"Well, since we've all insulted each other," Henry countered, "I'd say we're even."

Frank sputtered and continued gawk at them both. Embarrassed that the man would act so unmindfully, Henry sighed and shook his head. Rashidi, who had remained still and silent during the entire exchange, suddenly began to laugh.

"Ha! They say Americans are funny, and they are right," Rashidi chuckled wildly. "You are both _very_ humorous."

Henry crossed his arms. "I'm British," he sniffed.

"I don't mean to insult, I don't at all," Rashidi told them with cheer, waving an errant hand. "I wanted to see if you were as intelligent as they say. You, Henry Brooks, are known for being a good man, however young. I wanted to see if what they said was true."

"Of all the fucked up-" Frank stopped and simply shook his head, his eyes hard and not at all amused.

"I hope I didn't cause too much trouble," Rashidi went on, casting a wary look at Frank. "I am not a trusting man, and do dislike angering people. But you must know, Mr. Brooks, I had to see how you would treat me if I were to act disrespectfully."

Henry's face was cold. "I'm assuming I passed this test, then?" he said, simply. Callously.

Rashidi fidgeted a bit, but gave a nod with a small shift of his shoulders. His own way of apologizing, no doubt. Henry stared at him for a short time, and both men watched him fastidiously to perhaps see if he would blow up into a rage. Instead of being angry, however, Henry was rather impressed. And entertained.

He laughed. "You know what, Mr. Shad? You're an absolute prat," he chuckled, moving forward to pat Rashidi on the arm. "But I honestly don't give two shits. That was well-played."

Rashidi grinned. "I thank you, Henry Brooks. I do find your sexuality discomforting; I was truthful about that," he said. Though Frank threw up his hands to say that he had given up, Henry liked the way Rashidi confessed his prejudice. It seemed as though the man was ashamed he could not tolerate homosexuals, and sorry that he had to warn Henry of the fact.

"Don't bloody worry about it," Henry smiled. "You may be one fucked up asshole, but I'm pretty sure I like you, sir."

"Not in _that way_," Frank corrected saucily. "We wouldn't want to upset your homophobic sensibilities."

"He's entitled to his own opinion, Frankie," Henry chided him, giving him a steady glare.

"Now-" He motioned for them both to surround the sofa table, having had enough of their catfight. "Let's get to business, shall we? Frank, can you call in that new recruit of yours…oh what's his name? The one with the wonky face."

Frank gave him a look that said he did not enjoy being a slave, but he moved toward the door anyway, swinging it open. He called for the guards, keeping a watchful glare on Harry and Rashidi, who were chit-chatting about nothing in particular. The new kid came into the room, standing in front of Frank attentively, not bothering to hide his curiosity.

"Hello," Henry turned to the young man and motioned him forward. "Your name?"

"Steven Cameron," the lad answered, his expression betraying a certain kind of pretentious arrogance.

"Nice to meet you, Steve," Henry smiled. "How old are you?"

"Well, uh," Steven looked towards his boss, who waved a hand. "I'm eighteen, just turned."

Henry raised an eyebrow. "Rather young, don't you think, Frank?" he said to the man, who scoffed.

"My dad worked for his dad," Steven explained, jutting a thumb at Frank. "It's a family business."

"Mm hmm." _I don't care, _he thought, making a popping sound with his lips and moving to pick up a modified gun. "You're going to help us with a little experiment, Steve. If you're up for it."

Steve nodded fast three times, sitting up in his chair and quite obviously ready to be of help.

Turning away from him, Henry gave Frank a look and spoke to Rashidi, "Mr. Shad," he said. "This pistol is called the Apocalypse, and, as you will see in a moment, it's named the APOC for a reason. I'm quite partial to it in a firefight."

"I see no difference from a regular weapon, Mr. Brooks," Rashidi pointed out, skeptically, but nowhere near as hostile as he had been before.

"Please, call me Henry," he charmed. He raised his arm and, without looking, shot Steve in the head. The boy's eyes widened before the bullet slammed into his face without mercy. The effects of the gun destroyed the young man completely, and Henry watched Rashidi's expression as the ash drifted into a pile at their feet.

"I-" Rashidi moved forward, his eyes on the gun. "I have never seen such magnificence," he said in awe.

"You killed my guy!" Frank exclaimed. "And there's ash on my goddamn couch!"

Henry waved a hand at him. "He worked for Massimiliano, anyway," he said casually.

"How _the fuck _did you know that?"

"I can read minds, you jackass."

"It is silent," Rashidi interrupted them, and Henry obligingly handed him the pistol. "No harsh recoil, no evidence," he added, shaking his head in admiration, handling the gun as if it were something holy. "What powers it?" he asked.

"More than a match and a bang," Henry told him, shrugging one shoulder.

Rashidi gave a small laugh. "I am beginning to understand now," he said, the pistol rested on both of his palms as he held it out for Henry to take back. "There are many of these?"

"They haven't been mass produced yet, but I'm buying out the space at the moment so we can get production underway," Frank answered for Henry. "The munitions factories should be up and running in two months, at the most."

Henry dipped his head at the still pissed off Frank. "We're producing these," he said, grabbing up the CON and its successor. "The coronation of Napoleon, Mr. Shad. The first and last machine gun of its power."

Rashidi took the weapon carefully, running his hands down the Goblin metal slide. "Ingenious," he complimented, looking up at them then. "I would be a fool to not accept a union with you both."

"Then we have a deal?" Henry asked rather optimistically. "You're a good leader, and a good businessman. I had hoped…"

The usually solemn man smiled, and then he turned the CON toward the ornate table between the two sofas. When he shot the gun his eyes widened with both pleasure and fear.

"My antiques!" Frank yowled, grabbing the machine gun from Rashidi and the pistol from Henry. "No more!" he demanded.

Rashidi laughed. "It is as easy as pie, as you Americans call it!" he exclaimed. "Very nice invention. Very dangerous weapons. I am sorry for your table, though."

"No you're not!"

"Frankie," Henry said with a huff, placing a hand on the man's shoulder. "You'll have as many useless poncy tables as you want once we team up with Mr. Shad. And, as I said before, I'm British."

"British? American? What's the difference?" Rashidi said cheerfully.

Henry smiled. "I may like you, but don't ever say that again."

"Do we have a deal or not?" Frank wanted to know, casting a quick look at Henry that said he was very tired of housing the ever infuriating Rashidi Shad. Henry didn't blame him.

"We have a deal," the man nodded happily, his eyes still on the weapons.

"Wonderful!" Henry grinned, walking to him to shake his hand. "I dare say our race will gain superiority once again," he claimed with a politician's smile.

"My race _is_ superior," Rashidi said defensively. "You harp so much on the color of my skin, Mr. Brooks, I have to wonder what your true aims are for the world."

Henry scrunched his nose up in laughter and shook his head. "I think the harping is more on you, Shad. For not wanting to be treated different, you sure do like to point out our differences."

Frank released a gust of air from his mouth that touched his graying hairline, flopping it up a bit.

Henry had to leave now, or he was sure he would dissolve into impolite guffaws. "And my comment had nothing to do with color," he said to Rashidi. "I meant the _human_ race."

With a quick goodbye to Frank, who sputtered at him in outrage, Henry made his way out of the office. He knew he would get it later for leaving Frankie with a baffled Rashidi, who was asking as Henry shut the door, "What did that mean, McAllister? What did he mean?" His amusement at the entire debacle of a meeting wouldn't let him feel too bad, however, and he walked out rather pleased with himself.

.o00o.

Borgin and Burkes didn't look any less creepy in the daylight, as Harry would have thought it might. As he made his way toward the dusty shop, he heard the footsteps draw farther back behind him. Harry didn't want Mundungus Fletcher to stand outside while he was in Borgin and Burkes, so he'd told Borgin to place the stolen cauldrons in the crates beside the shop stoop. Predictably, Harry heard the man come through the door after him, intending, no doubt, to try and cut a deal for the stolen goods. Fletcher wasn't a hard man to read, on his best day.

Harry motioned to Borgin with a wave of his hand, and stunned the tag-along quickly, shutting the door. "You can bring in the cauldrons now," he said to Borgin hastily.

"Well done, Mr. Potter! But I didn't see him until he dropped the Disillusionment Charm! How did you know it was Fletcher?"

Harry gave Borgin a very patient glower but explained tightly, "Why, the smell of cheap cigars and all that racket he made _sneaking_ behind me gave him away."

Mundungus woke up with a start when Harry cast an _Enervate_, his wide eyes looking about wildly until he noticed Borgin and Harry. He had the decency to look sheepish. "Caught me, have ya?" he grunted, struggling a little. When he realized he wouldn't be getting out of the ropes Harry had bound him with, Mundungus sat back and huffed.

"What were your orders?" Harry asked without preamble.

"Just ter follow ya, lad. Lemme go, will yeh?"

"Nope," he said. "When do you check in?"

Fletcher rolled his eyes and looked away. "Every second hour," he confessed when Harry prodded him with his own wand.

Harry searched his eyes, pleased that the smelly man was telling the truth. He wouldn't want to have Borgin check in with Dumbledore at the wrong time, thereby telling the old man that Fletcher wasn't really Fletcher at all. "How?" he asked impatiently.

"Two-way mirror in me pocket," he said, gesturing to the duffle coat with his chin. Harry summoned the mirror to him and looked at it carefully.

"Interesting," he said, turning it over. He handed it to Borgin and said, "Would you be adverse to wearing an extended glamour charm, Borgin?"

"Not at all!" the man piped up. "Anything for a loyal servant of our Lord!" He embellished his words with a little half-bow.

"You're a bloody Death Eater!" Fletcher howled, starting to struggle again. "Of all the crazy nutters! Bollocks, lemme go!"

Harry glanced at Fletcher disdainfully. "I'll be back in a few hours to modify his memory," he said to Borgin, setting a heavy sleeping charm on the cursing Mundungus. "That should hold until I get back."

He did the necessary charms to change Borgin into the exact replica of Fletcher, and tapped the mirror the man held out.

"Every second hour," he warned. "Which would be," he paused and looked at his watch, "in ten minutes. Have you got the accent down?"

"I'm a master of masquerades, Mr. Potter. Surely our Lord has told you how well I can work on Polyjuice or a Glamour Charm! Don't you worry, Mr. Potter."

Harry gaped at him. "Yes, well," he said a bit sneeringly. "The activation password for the mirror is _phoenix fire_. Fletcher never says it, anyway, but in case Dumbledore shouts at you, 'are there any more chocolate frogs?' you'll know what to say…"

It was Borgin who was giving him an alarmed look now, and Harry shrugged and rolled his eyes.

"The man's archaic and bat shit, Borgin, what did you expect? Do you have the Portkey?"

The man gave him the gold pendant carefully. Harry smirked at the amulet, amber framed by an ouroboros. Voldemort was always so partial to snakes and symbolism, he thought with an internal grimace. He hissed in Parseltongue and felt the hook at his navel activate, leaving Fletcher and Borgin behind.

.o00o.

"He ran before we could capture him," the Dark Lord said as mournfully as he could. It ended up coming out rather indifferent.

"It's alright," Harry soothed mildly. "Denny probably thought you were an enemy of mine."

"Ah, do you have many enemies that I don't know about?" he asked, dipping a finger in his wine and swirling it. Harry thought the action was oddly charming.

"No more than I do allies, I suppose," he smiled. "I meant what I said: Thank you for doing this for me."

Voldemort was suddenly very awkward, and Harry felt a thrill of pleasure to see him so frazzled. They sat in the dingy bedroom-turned-study in Malfoy Manor. The entire place decorated in rich blues and greens. Harry quite liked the Manor, it reminded him quite a bit of Draco for all of its weak grandeur and frosty affection. He could imagine the little boy trying his best to play about the polished white halls only to knock into a Malfoy heirloom and feel the sharp swat of his father's cane. Though that scenario was unlikely, given how both Narcissa and Lucius treated their son like precious china.

The room they were in was not green or blue, but a deep ruby to match the Dark Lord's gaze. It made his complexion all the more gray, his eyes too bright and too red, and the color only served to remind Harry of blood. The bluest blood there was. Firelight danced across the walls and heated the room, and it would have made everything cozy had Harry been with a less daunting companion. Voldemort finished his glass of wine and sat back.

"I hope that Dumbledore has not been too irritating this last week that we have not seen each other," the man said, hissing out the dreaded headmaster's name.

"Not really," Harry confessed. "He kept me within the grounds the night you attacked Belmarsh, and he's started to have members of the Order follow me." When Voldemort frowned with concern, Harry waved it away. "I took care of it," he said.

"He knows he cannot keep you there," the Dark Lord said idly. "What does he mean by confining you to the school? Or are you a student now?"

Harry shook his head. "I've been to a few of their classes," he sighed and rubbed his forehead. "But I already know what they're teaching. Dumbledore's more focused on defeating you though, so he doesn't push."

"Oh?" Voldemort exclaimed, amused. "And what does he hope to defeat me with?"

Laughingly, Harry sat back and crossed his legs. "I suspect he's trying to utilize the Hallows in some way. I know he has the stone close. It's easy to sense."

"A deal with death? Dumbledore wouldn't have it in him to do it," he argued. "Now, if I were to have the Hallows, I would certainly consider the possibility."

"I'm working on it, I promise," Harry told him, as if he had been chided. "He'll be dead soon anyway."

"Do we know what has made him ill?" the Dark Lord asked curiously. Harry frowned and looked away into the fire, away from those eyes.

"He was cursed, definitely," Harry speculated, "But by what no one seems to know. He's been hush-hush about it, anyway."

The Dark Lord was silent for a long while, and only when Harry felt decidedly awkward did he refilled his glass and hand another one to Harry. Voldemort had not stopped staring at him though, and he felt that gaze travel across the arch of his throat and down his back, settling on the hand that held the wine. "Dumbledore has the Elder Wand," Voldemort told him at last. "You will bring it to me when he is gone."

"So your conversation with Grindelwald bore fruit," he observed unnecessarily.

"It did." The Dark Lord moved closer. "I hope my other endeavors are just as bountiful."

Harry swallowed. "I wish I could stay," he responded, shocked as he realized he'd meant it. "I have things to take care of, though."

"Of course," Voldemort nodded, waving him towards the door. "I would be careful, Harry. I know Dumbledore, and if he suspects, he acts. Do not let him collar you."

Standing at the open door, Harry licked his lips and dipped his head in the Dark Lord's direction.

"Thanks for the warning," he said softly and left.

.o00o.

Donnelly stared at the boy rather bemusedly. The coffee in his hand had long since gone cold, forgotten once Brooks had let himself in without knocking, or tapping…whatever it was that one was supposed to do when asking for entry into a van. He snapped out of his glaring when something plopped into his coffee from the ceiling, and he cursed substandard government vehicles for the fourth time. The rain had hit New York rather suddenly, and the white behemoth Donnelly and his crew used for surveillance purposes leaked like a faucet. He glanced at the offending wet patch on the roof then turned back to Brooks, who had continued harassing Marks and Monroe while Donnelly had brooded.

"He wasn't caught," Marks assured Brooks again. "We don't know where he is, Henry."  
Brooks cursed, and Monroe blinked.

"I can't believe-" Donnelly began, shaking his head back and forth. "I can't believe you're asking us to help you find Denny Brooks."

The lad frowned, and turned to scowl at him. "He's my father," he reminded the agent sharply.

"He's a goddamn criminal. Of the highest caliber. A criminal." Donnelly put down his coffee and leaned against the revolving chair Monroe had vacated when Brooks had showed up. "In case you've forgotten, we're supposed to catch criminals. Not help them."

"I was under the impression," Monroe decided to speak, holding her finger up. "That we were only trying to tell Brooks _where _he was, not help him escape from the British government."  
She seemed mighty proud of herself, then, and Donnelly glared.

"Who's side are you on?" he snapped at her. "Are you a Federal Agent, Monroe, or what?"

Brooks was the one who scoffed at him this time. "You all became more than Federal Agents the moment you put your lot in with me. Don't delude yourself, Donnelly."

He didn't much appreciate _that _comment, and though it was sort of true (okay, entirely true), he crossed his arms in defense and snarled at Brooks. "He hasn't been caught. He hasn't been seen in New York, and there's not one whisper of him in the U.S. Go harass your own police. Denny Brooks _isn't_ here."

Henry moved from hovering over Marks's chair and smiled at Donnelly slyly. "But you're so much fun to tease, Donny."

"_Don't fucking call me that_!" he shouted.

"Whoa," Marks swung his head around to stare at his boss. "Easy, Marshall."

While Agent Donnelly calmed, Monroe glanced at Henry, subtly motioning for him to leave. He ignored her, though, and continued to observe the angry man in front of him.

"Why is Rashidi talking to McAllister?" he suddenly snapped, back into interrogation mode after his slight loss of control.

Henry adjusted his stance and ran his tongue across his bottom lip. "The war," he said simply.

"And Choi," Donnelly mentioned, as if he had just remembered. "All that's left for McAllister to buddy up with is Rudeck and Lukasz, right, Brooks? A regular criminal army."

He had said it sarcastically, but Henry didn't laugh like he was supposed to. "Ugh," he gagged instead. "Rudeck is a son of a bitch. Daft as a brush as well. He won't last."

Henry had heard about the self-titled lord through word of mouth. After Tyler had passed away, and the cartels of England were left floundering about, Mack Rudeck had stepped in to take over where Henry and his lot had left off. Henry had expected _someone _to grab up the reigns, but not Mack Rudeck, a twitchy informant back in the Evenward days.

He could admit he had left England a bit worse for wear when Denny had been arrested, but at the time he had barely been able to take care of himself, much less an entire crown business. Henry knew Denny wouldn't be happy an idiot like Rudeck was now in charge of one of the last great trafficking routes, but Henry hoped he would be pacified upon seeing the eventuality of Rudeck's descent.

"Not fond of the new lord?" Marks asked, smiling at him. Henry thought his blush was amusing.

"Fuck no," he confided. "The man is a ridiculous sod. He won't be anywhere near the alliance Frank and I are working on. I'll get him sooner or later."

"You _are _making a fucking army!" Donnelly exclaimed, looking so angry that Henry had to laugh.

"I _am_ making a fucking army," he mocked, in the same tone and with his own polished American accent.

"You don't seem to be pacing yourself," Marks commented idly.

"Or know what he's doing!" Donnelly shouted at Marks. "He has no idea what he's doing!"

"Oh, I know, _Marshall_," Henry said, crossing his arms. "I'm taking it _very_ slow, but I do know exactly what I'm doing." He switched his weight to his other hip, sighing. "I need to know if you come across Denny."

Donnelly knew not to argue anymore about the matter, so he chose, instead, to fume in silence. Brooks didn't seem satisfied, though, and, while it pissed Donnelly off royally, he held in his eventual tantrum and asked, "What? What's the problem now?"

Henry tried to look sheepish, but failed. "Could you keep an eye out for Francis Gabriel for me?"

"Couldn't find him yourself?" Donnelly needled, smirking slowly as if his idea of payback had actually affected Henry.

As a matter of fact, Henry could probably find Francis Gabriel easily. The man had come inside of him, his essence had touched Henry's essence, and they were connected in the strongest way (besides blood) that anything _could be _connected in the universe. He had only to seek the tie to Francis he knew would be there, but he chose not to.

He wasn't ready to acknowledge Francis and what he had done. He wasn't ready to face the backstabbing pillock, to look him in the eyes and still be attracted to him. To remember how much he had missed Francis when he had 'died.' There were other things to be done, after all, and the betrayer could wait. It was likely that his ex thought his identity was still veiled with the help of Massimiliano's protection. Henry would be happy to open the man's eyes to the truth, when the time came.

"Just watch out for him, and if you find anything, call me."

Henry made to walk out of the van, but turned when Marks said, "uh, Henry?" Marks stopped and looked a trifle nervous. "Thanks for the bonus."

The Agents had each found quite a hefty amount of money in their accounts last Thursday, which they all knew would never have come from the bureau. Henry smiled at him. "You're welcome," he said, and hopped out of the van.

"What?" Marks said to his co-workers defensively. "Someone had to thank the guy," he scowled.

"Undoubtedly," Monroe added cheerfully, raising up a pair of keys. "I got a Corvette!"

"God bless America," Donnelly muttered sarcastically.

.o00o.

He gave McKay an enthusiastic hug when he walked in, ignoring Frank's glare for having left their conversation with Rashidi.

"How's the manor?" Henry asked him happily, and John scoffed.

"The kids love it; think they're in some sort of fairy tale. Mary is cleaning it up some, and Jessie's taken to the mare you have in the stables," he described.

"Oh." Henry nodded. "Cherry's youngling. What did Jessie name her?" he queried, almost afraid to ask.

McKay grumbled, "Tinkerbell." And Henry laughed.

"Do you mind staying at Tyler's place?" When McKay looked exasperated at the question, Henry held up a hand. "I know I've asked you before, I just want to make sure you don't have a problem with living there. England's a bit different than Texas, I reckon."

John clapped Henry on the back. "It's alright, Sparky. I feel like Pip out there, so suddenly worth Dickens."

Henry laughed at the joke, and McKay chuckled as well as they sat comfortably. Frank murmured something rude but gave them both drinks anyway. "Denny Brooks is out," he said while he poured his own drink.

McKay coughed violently, and Henry pounded him on the back. "Eh?" he asked when he wasn't in danger of choking.

Frank jutted a thumb at Henry. "Some connections of Henry's broke out the place. Denny is running somewhere in England."

"You haven't found him yet?" John asked, turning to the boy with a frown.

Henry polished off his scotch and grimaced. "Usually, when I've established a connection with somebody, I can find them easily. For example, bodily fluids such as semen and blood help to form a string of sorts from person to person," he summarized.

John's mouth fell open. "T.M.I., Sparky! Christ!"

Henry couldn't help but grin. "Denny and I never exchanged blood, which I regret sincerely, so I've got no connection to him but an emotional one, and I was never adopted, legally or magically."

"So, Denny's out there running from the law with no way to contact us," Frank surmised.

"I wanted to ask you if you'd keep an eye out for him," Henry finished. "He might contact you, assuming I had gone to New York like he wanted. If he's desperate, he'll go to Tyler's place, so could you watch for him, John?"

"He probably thinks _someone _he knows will be around there looking for him," McKay agreed. "So, yeah, I will."

"Thanks," Henry said sincerely. "In other news, we've got Rashidi and Choi aboard. Frank's been in touch with Oscar's superior as well."

"Kort Lukasz?" John said, interested. "I thought he was a hermit?"

"Not really," Henry told him, cracking his neck. "He's just an asshole. But he may not be contrary to joining, given the fact that Oscar was his nephew. And now that he knows we're after Massimiliano, he's rather intrigued, despite himself."

"Who wouldn't be?" Frank nattered, looking into his glass a bit drunkenly. "The promise of superior weapons and the eventual take over of the world… no cons there."

McKay gave Frank a look, which was only noticed by Henry, and got up. "I'd better get back," he said, and drew out the watch Henry had given him that served as a permanent Portkey.

"How's it working?" Henry asked, motioning to the clock.

Nodding distractedly, John said, "Just fine," and tampered with the hands a bit. "Quite the invention you got here; thanks for it. I'll see you soon?"

"You know how to reach me."

"Hunker down, Sparky."

He disappeared as he tapped the side of the watch. Henry turned to Frank, who seemed to want to somehow drown himself in his empty glass. He sighed.

"What's the matter, then?"

Frank looked up. "I don't know what you mean," he said morosely.

"You do." Henry sat on the man's desk in a familiar position of comfort. "Come on, Frankie," he pushed.

There was a small silence, in which Frank sought to memorize every detail of the ring of water his glass had made on the woodwork. Finally, those blue eyes met his. "I don't really know you, do I?" Frank asked softly.

Taken aback, Henry frowned and took the glass away from him. "You remember my conversation with Rashidi, Frank?"

"Yes, yes, I know," he huffed, running a hand across his face. "World domination and all that," he said.

"No," Henry corrected, crossing his legs. "Do you recall the way I spoke to Rashidi?"

"In that pretentious, arrogant, and overwhelmingly sexy way? Yeah, I fucking recall."

"How am I talking to you now, Frankie?" Henry prodded, not bothering to hide his concern. "How am I with you?"

"Contrite, I guess. But still pretentious, and arrogant," Frank stopped and clicked his tongue behind his teeth. "You're different, really."

Henry smiled at him. "That's me. I think you're one of the few who actually know me better than anyone else. Denny always understood, no matter how much he thought he didn't, and you do too. Trust me," he comforted.

"Trust you," he scoffed, looking away. "You're a manipulative little shit," he accused. "I thought I had control, but it slipped. It slipped fast, so fast that I didn't think I ever even had control in the first place."

"At first, maybe not." Henry leaned towards him and ran a hand down his cheek. "Now you do, though. Now I need you to be Frank 'the Bastard' McAllister. The boss I grew to care for in such a short time."

"It's not just about the plans?"

Henry could tell Frank seemed embarrassed yet hopeful that he would get a positive answer. No doubt, when Frank thought about the conversation later, he would be humiliated and grumpy as hell. The same old Frank McAllister Henry knew could be merciless and sly.

"No, Frankie," Henry confirmed, getting up and sinking to his knees beside Frank's chair. "I'm upset that you think I care so little for you," he admitted.

"You've got more powerful men than me aching to have you. You've got Denny, your family, England, your friends. What the fuck do you _need_ me for?"

Henry huffed, honestly upset, and said, "Many things, Frank McAllister. Would you deny me one of the few places I can be myself, so that I can care for someone without any pressure?"

Frank swallowed. "Here?"

Henry smiled gently, and nodded. "Here," he said.

"I'm sorry, then, Henry," he licked his lips and looked away. "For being a fucker today, I apologize."

Henry laughed. "You're forgiven," he said with a grin. "Are we alright now, Frankie?"

He inhaled and exhaled. "We're good, Hen," he concurred.

"Good." The lad got up and tilted his head, still smiling ridiculously, he added, "Fucker."

.o00o.

"Human father!" Bo practically tackled him the moment he stepped into his rooms. Though the dragon had stayed in the forest for the past week, Harry hadn't seen him much due to Dumbledore keeping him rather busy. What with Horcrux talk and speculation, not to mention regularly keeping in touch with his contacts, Harry had been running between the Magical and Muggle worlds nonstop. Bo didn't seem to mind his absence, however, and had had quite a bit of fun chasing the Centaurs about, without actually hurting them.

Two days ago, Tenebres had called Bo back to Gringotts, and his little drake (Bo was still a baby, no matter how big) left with the promise to be back soon. Harry hadn't expected him this soon, though.

"Bo! Dearest," Harry greeted him cheerfully. "To what do I owe this enormous pleasure?"

"Dragon father sent me," Bo told him energetically. "He says you're to come to Gringotts immediately!"

Harry drew away from the loose hold he had on Bo, and gazed into those glassy eyes worriedly.

"Is everything alright? Griphook? Ten?" he asked.

"Yes, yes," Bo said, his long tail flicking back and forth. "They're fine! It's _your _human father."

Harry struggled for a moment to understand, but when he did, he stuttered a bit and breathed out, "Denny?"

"Yes!" Bo repeated impatiently. "He's there right now; Griphook has him. He's injured, but not badly. He's mostly just tired, and the Goblins want you to come get him because they can't keep him for long, since he's not keyed into the wards as a guest, and your human father went to us because he don't know where else to go."

After digesting the sudden tirade, Harry realized his mouth was open, so he closed it. "He's alright, though?"

"As right as rain," Bo sniffed. "But as ill-tempered as usual. He never did like me."

Harry felt his face break out into a stunning smile, and he grabbed Bo around the neck and hugged him tight. "I do adore you, my Bo," he said.

The dragon looked entirely too pleased with himself. "Flatterer."


	22. Chapter Twenty One

A/n: Oh, boy. I had a lot of fun typing up this chapter. It's…eventful. Hey guys, we're almost at four hundred reviews! Wow! Want to give me a Birthday present? For it is my b-day today and I love presents. Review, eh? Now it's time to party, yeah!

Note: For all of you who wanted to know who I fashioned Denny after, he's Jeffrey Dean Morgan, all the way (with a Scottish brogue. HOT) . Also, I'd like to thank Shannon for an awesome line in here. She loves Bo just as much as I do, and he deserves a treat *sniggers*. Also, "Qui seme le vent recolte la tempete" is French for _he who sows the wind, reaps the storm_. Lovely, eh?

A Few Responses: **Ncgal**: it's no problem, for sure! Actually, I have an idea of what to write (or just an idea in general) could you maybe PM or email me any special requests? I love special requests I can insert into the stories I write for people. I hope you like this chapter, my love, because I really had a fantastic time writing it. Talk to you soon, I hope! **Ana**: why, thank you very much! FF, I've found, is always a bitch no matter how Christian you are. But, pretty much the coolest readers are on FF, lurking about and reviewing, and that's why I still post here. Enjoy the next chapter, and you're very welcome for uploading this story. If I hadn't I'd probably be less stressed and more drunk. Kidding :p

Dedication: to Amazonia, for putting up with me no matter how ridiculous I get. And I can get fucking ridiculous. Her beta-ing skills blow my mind, and I love her (no gay). My ever darling friend...you _are_ the sweetest lady in the world. End gushing.

Warnings for this chapter: Violence, mentions of underage sex, CD, and offensive language.

* * *

Pistol Whipped

Chapter Twenty-one

The wounds Denny had sustained from a run-in with a few members of Massimiliano's guild were extensive, but nonthreatening. By the time Henry had him patched up sufficiently enough to survive the night, his hands and knees had gone numb with weariness. A Cutting Curse had hit Denny right across his forearm, slicing through the tender muscle and just scraping past the vital vein. Though he would survive, the blood loss caused his father to loll about in a deep sleep for the entire time Henry healed him. He was surprised that Denny lived through the encounter with Ammon's men, no matter how efficient his father was at staying alive. He was thankful, and he hoped Denny was appreciative as well when he finally decided to wake.

Henry sat back on his knees and gently adjusted Denny so that he was laying on his uninjured side, noticing, then, the sheen of sweat on the man's brow and the thinness of his body that had come from eating prison food. He placed a hand on his father's forehead, unsurprised to feel the slight warmth of a fever from the injury. Checking over his father one last time, Henry finally drew away from him with a sigh.

"Will he be alright?" Tenebres asked, his long neck craning over Henry's shoulder to look at Denny. Bo tore at a piece of raw meat beside them, hungry with the scent of blood in the air and shuffling slightly with curiosity.

"He'll be fine," Henry said, relieved that he didn't have to lie. "Thank you for keeping him safe," he mentioned gratefully.

"Of course," Ten sniffed. "Your human father is important to you, so he is important to us."

"He still smells like food," Bo prodded, looking morose. "I want to eat him. I'm sorry."

Henry flashed him a grin and got to his feet, patting Bo on the snout. "Apology accepted, my dear, just don't tell Denny you were wanting him for dinner," he teased.

"Still so young," Ten scolded, nudging Bo lightly. "Your appetite will get you into mischief, drake."

"Or you'll just be the fattest dragon there ever was," Henry added slyly.

"Oh, leave off!" Bo told them, smoke billowing out of his nose. "Where will you take him, human father?" he asked.

Henry had thought of that particular problem on the way to Gringotts, knowing he couldn't possibly hide Denny at Hogwarts without the headmaster finding out. The singular option, really, was to send Denny to the only home he had ever had, and at least he didn't harbor ill memories of the place, like Henry did.

"Tyler's manor," he said to Bo, derisively, and levitated Denny off of the floor. "John's been keeping it up," he explained.

"May I come too?" Bo exclaimed. "I haven't been to the manor in ages, and there was always something to eat there."

Henry laughed. "Are you still hungry?"

"He is always famished," Tenebres huffed, rather put out by Bo's exuberance to leave. "Hello, Griphook," he greeted.

Henry turned and bowed low to the goblin, who smiled in that disconcerting way of his. "Mr. Brooks, Tenebres, Bo." the goblin stopped there and pointed a gnarled finger at the young dragon. "You are getting fat."

"I am not!"

"Thank you," Henry cut in before Bo could throw a tantrum. "For keeping Denny here," he extrapolated. "Thank you very much."

"It wasn't a problem, Mr. Brooks," Griphook assured. "But I think you should know that your father used a hostage to get into Diagon Alley and subsequently the bank."

"I had wondered how he got into the place," Henry speculated, casting a glance at Ten, who looked amused.

Griphook bared his teeth and snapped his fingers, and, between them, a tied up, scraggly looking man fell to the floor with a hollow thud. Henry just had to laugh.

"Well, Fletcher," he said, looking down and into those frightened eyes. "You're fucking everywhere, aren't you? See, I had every intention of killing the unlucky sod Denny brought with him, but you—" he stopped and chuckled. "You have the worst luck of any man I've ever met. I won't add to it."

Mundungus Fletcher, speaking through the gag in his mouth, issued a muffled bout of cursing and furious grunts, and Henry shook his head and smiled. He placed both hands on the man's temple, giving him a memory of a good day scouting for stolen goods while swiftly and silently removing all evidence of Denny and himself. With a snap of his fingers, he banished Fletcher to an alley he was known to frequent, and then he turned back to Griphook.

"How can I possibly repay you?" he asked softly, all traces of humor gone. "You always show unmitigated tolerance for me and my own. For helping Denny… what could I do?"

The goblin gave a rare laugh, more of a cackling croak than anything else, and bowed to Henry imperiously. "You can, perhaps," he started, sagely, "take care of your father."

Henry tilted his head to the side, frowning, and asked, "Any other form of payment?"

"Oh, it is not an unselfish request, Mr. Brooks," Griphook explained furtively. "I would rather a leader who is sane to one tied by loves and haunted by loss."

Nodding, Henry summoned Denny to him and motioned for Bo to come forward. He wouldn't pretend to not understand Griphook's words, but he was able to ignore them. Whether advice or a warning, Henry didn't like considering what the goblin, evidently, thought of often. He would have to think on it later, when Denny was finally safe and within reach, and when Henry could take the time to truly acknowledge how tied he was to the man who was his father in everything but blood.

.o00o.

"Does he need antibiotics? Pain killers? A doctor?"

Henry gave John a look, struggling with Denny's weight briefly, before he managed to deposit him onto the couch. He didn't want to chance one of McKay's daughters - or worse, McKay's wife - seeing Denny floating in the air. "No, I've patched him up nicely," he answered impatiently.

"He looks like shit."

"Yeah, I know," Henry snapped, and then sighed when John scowled. "I've healed him with magic, McKay, so he should be fine. I'll give him a Fever Reducer and a pain potion before I leave."

"So, should I just assume I know what that means, or what, Sparky?"

Henry finally looked at his friend and managed a small smile. "Bo's going to have to stay here too," he blurted, throwing the news into the man's face without any sort of premeditated cushioning.

"Bo?" John repeated, his mouth open. "The dragon thing… that Bo?"

"Yes, McKay."

"Ha, ha, good one, Sparky," he laughed, pointing a finger at him. "I thought for a second you wanted a man-eating, mythical lizard to stay in the same house as my children. And my wife. Can't forget the wife."

Henry grimaced comically and shrugged with a flourish. John shook his head. "Hell no. No, no. Not going to happen." He kept his voice purposely lowered as he waved his hands in Henry's face. "No, Sparky."

Walking forward, he patted McKay on the back soothingly. "Come on now, Uncle John. It's just a dragon," he comforted.

"It's _just_ _a_ _dragon_, he says," John huffed and moved out from under Henry's hand. He abruptly gestured to Denny. "It's just Denny Brooks on your couch, he says. What the fuck, kid? What about _my_ family? You move my ass to England, demand I clean this old shit pile of a house up, and now you want me to harbor a dangerous fugitive and a flying tank. That's some fucked up—"

"Oh," Henry interrupted. "How rude of me! I haven't called on your family. I'll wait here in the drawing room for them."

John's face was red with anger. "They're eating dinner," he lied.

Henry checked his watch. "It's ten."

"Asshole," he cursed, leaving the room and giving the furniture a quick kick. Henry moved Denny into a more comfortable position on the couch, and his father gave a heavy snore before sliding a bit to the side. Henry gave up and watched as John's wife, Mary, and their two little girls came into the room.

"Hello, Mary!" he greeted her jovially.

"Henry," she acknowledged, not at all surprised to see him. "How are you?"

Mary McKay certainly wasn't as glad to see him, given his affiliation with her husband's job, but the natural suspicion she had for anyone working with McAllister (bar John) didn't bother Henry at all. He rather thought it admirable, considering how easily the aforementioned associates could dispose of her.

"How do you like the manor?" he asked politely.

"Oh," she paused and flushed a bit with pleasure. "It's wonderful, thank you."

Henry turned to the two little girls. "And you must be Jessica and Cassie," he said with a smile. "I'm Henry," he introduced, shaking their little hands.

"Was you the one who gave us the castle house?"

"_Were_ you," Jessie corrected her sister. "Did you, though?"

"I did," he confessed with a sigh. "I hear that you quite like my mare's filly, what did you name her again?"

"Tinkerbell!" she shouted excitedly. "You don't mind, do you?" she asked, all happiness gone and replaced with wary possessiveness.

"She's yours," Henry told her, and smiled when her face lit up. "As is this house, for as long as you would like to stay here."

Jessie looked as if she wanted to hug him, but restrained herself, bouncing in place and positively glowing. Henry marveled at the vacillation of children as she and her sister yelled, "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!"

"Are you a prince?" Cassie asked suddenly. "Of England?"

"He's a princess alright," John muttered, and Mary hit him.

Henry flashed him a humorless grin. "No, I'm not a prince," he said to the girls. "Could I ask you to do me royally big favor, though?"

"Shoot," Jessie said.

"Would you mind a dragon living in your backyard?"

"Excuse me?" Mary sputtered, her pretty blue eyes wide.

"Like a real dragon?" Cassie asked skeptically.

"A real dragon," he nodded. "He won't hurt you, and he knows not to go after Tinkerbell or old Cherry. He's a real softy, I promise."

He started walking out of the door, hearing Mary's gasp at finally seeing Denny, and they followed him seemingly without choice. Bo was plucking at the grass in the yard, destroying it for the sake of destroying it, and Henry shook a finger at him. "Bo, no," he chided.

The dragon sniffed but looked happy to see John and Henry surrounded by new people. "Hallo, John!" he said excitedly, and shook his snout towards McKay, who awkwardly patted him.

"She's real!" Jessie yelled.

"_He's_ real," Henry corrected her gently. "His name is Bo. He says to tell you that it's a pleasure to meet you all."

"Can I pet him?" Cassie queried, her eyes bright.

"I'm sure he would like that very much."

Cassie moved forward, but her mother snatched her back harshly. "No!" she shouted, gaping at Bo.

John uncomfortably glanced at his wife and shoved his hands in his pockets. "It's alright, Mary," he tried to reassure, but was hesitant to go against her wishes.

Unbelievably, her grip loosened and Cassie shot forward. Henry knew it wasn't obedience on Mary's part that had allowed her youngest to pet a dragon. It had everything to do with the payback Mary was capable of if something happened to her kid. John sensed it as well and clenched his jaw. The young girl raised a hand out for Bo, who congenially gave her his nose.

"He's so warm!" she exclaimed. "Come on, Jessie, he's the nicest dragon ever!"

Jessie walked towards them and began to stroke Bo's neck, and a deep rumble developed in his chest. "He's purring!" Jessie said happily. "Like a cat!"

"Cats are delicious," Bo told them.

"Mind you don't spoil him, now," Henry warned them. "See how fat he is? He'll get lazy and be good for nothing."

Bo blew out a cloud of smoke from his nostrils, and the girls giggled.

"That's a dragon," Mary whispered beside him. "My children are petting a dragon."

"Mary…."

"You shut your pie hole!" she snapped at John, who obeyed immediately. She turned to Henry with all of the ire she was capable of. "I know you gave us this home, the money, the safety, but a dragon is going a little too far considering two babies live here!"

"M'not a baby!" Cassie yelled as Bo sniffed through her hair.

"Yes you are," Jessie argued with her. "You're still wearing diapers to bed!"

"Mom!"

But Mary wasn't paying attention to them at the moment; instead, her bright glare was trained on Henry and her husband, ready to tear them apart.

"I understand, Mrs. McKay," he began, raising his hands up defensively. "Bo is mostly here to watch over your family and the man in the parlor. You probably won't see him most of the time—"

"That man," she cut him off, cooling down a bit. "He's wanted in Britain. He was on the news. You brought him here."

Henry licked his lips, taking note of the media working against them now (that damn Massimiliano, no doubt) and dipped his head at the angry woman. "I did, ma'am," he said.

"He's my father."

She observed him carefully, filled with a maternal caution that was more like an impenetrable fortress, considering how hard it was to break down, and then finally backed off. A little.

"Alright," she said, pinching her lips together.

"I only brought Denny here because this used to be his home. If he wakes in a strange place he may panic. At least here I know he's safe, and I can reach him easily," he gave his excuses.

"What's wrong with him? There was blood," Mary asked stiffly, her eyes now glued to her children, who were giggling madly as Bo tittered and snuffled at them.

"He was injured," Henry explained. "Besides a fever and some soreness, he should be fine after a kip."

Mary debated internally, before she muttered to her audience, "The girls should be in bed," and then called for them. "Jessie! Cassie! Bed!"

The girls groaned but bade Bo goodnight, running over to their mother and jabbering joyfully about their 'new pet.' Mary pushed them towards the house, beginning to leave herself.

"Mrs. McKay," Henry drew her attention back. "Thank you for understanding."

She nodded evenly, still simmering with anger.

"Mary… I—"

"You don't get to talk to me," she said to John waspishly, and marched into the house with her children.

"Now you've done it," John groused. "I'm in the dog house, thanks to you! Since Denny Brooks is on the goddamn sofa and all!"

Henry grinned cheekily. "You'll have to share it with Bo, otherwise you're S.O.L., mate," he teased.

"Asshole."

"Will I get fresh meat here?" Bo piped up, craning his neck to look at them. "Perhaps mutton again? I like mutton."

"Whatever you want, my Bo," Henry told him, patting him lovingly. "You'll take care of them, won't you?"

"You know I will," Bo chastised him for asking, arching into Henry's hand. "How long should I be here, human father?"

Henry sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Until Denny's recovered," he said, turning back to John. "I want to know the moment he wakes up, McKay. He might be out for a while, given the extent of his exhaustion, but if you could send me a message when he—"

"Yeah, yeah," John interrupted, scowling. "I'm at your service, master."

He had the balls to look contrite then. "I am sorry about all this," he apologized.

"As sorry as you can be, I bet."

Henry cracked his neck but remained expressionless. "Here, then," he reached into his jacket. "For your hospitality," he said, handing John a second edition _Barnaby Rudge_, and, despite his anger, McKay couldn't help but be pleased.

"Fucking bribery," he said, lighting a smoke and sifting through the pages. "Fine," he acknowledged, exhaling. "You win."

When he looked up, however, Henry was gone.

"Fucking wizards!" he cursed loudly. Bo crouched in front of him, looking innocent.

"Alright," John said to Bo, gesturing to the dragon with his cigarette. "Listen up, you!"

Bo's head came up, and the rumble in his chest rose in volume.

"You be careful around my kids," McKay told him, ignoring what sounded like laughter coming from the dragon. "Stay over there," he gestured to the woods, and Bo looked over to where he pointed. "Don't eat cattle from the neighbor's field. I'll get you your meat."

Bo snuffled and tilted his head.

"You don't have any idea what I'm saying, do you?" John said, giving up.

"John!" Mary's voice carried. "You had better come inside before I lock you out!"

He quickly stubbed out his cigarette, cursing the day he met Henry Brooks, and raised both of his hands to Bo. "Stay," he commanded, and Bo balked at being treated so. "Stay. Good dog."

He barely got inside the house before the fire Bo shot at him singed his hide off. McKay wondered, when he looked at his wife standing at the top of the staircase and glaring, whether or not he would have more luck with the dragon.

.o00o.

He didn't have to be covert. Grimmauld Place was the same as always, though Sirius and the Weasleys had started to clean it up a bit over the summer. He found it funny, however, that a simple "Dumbledore sent me" sufficed for the occupants of the hidden house. Though he was slightly inconvenienced by Sirius and his want to reminisce about his dead father and their glory days, Harry was able to slide out of their hold relatively soon. He thanked Remus Lupin, as he made his way to the pantry, for keeping Black from overwhelming him.

The little hidey-hole the house elf Kreacher called a home was despicably unhygienic, and he cringed as he opened the door and watched the bundle of rags move to stare up at him.

"Kreacher sees the Mudblood," the thing muttered. "He wants something from Kreacher, but Kreacher won't give the Mudblood anything. Nothing."

"You are absolutely vile," Harry told him with a shake of his head. "You know what I want, then? You're going to have to give it to me."

"Gives it to the Mudblood, Kreacher won't. He will have to kill Kreacher," the house elf hissed at him, curling into a tighter ball. It was clutching what looked to be necklace of some sort.

Harry leaned against the wall with a sigh and immediately regretted it. Dust coated his arm, and he brushed it off in frustration, saying, "I can kill you if you want, Kreacher. It really doesn't bother me. I need that necklace you're holding. Pretty please."

"Master gifted Kreacher with a task," the house elf grumbled. "Must keep locket safe, but the Mudbloods come into Mistress' house and take it from Kreacher. Mudblood won't take it again."

He scratched his head. "Sirius, you mean?" he asked casually.

"He is not master! Filthy Mudblood lover is never master to Kreacher!" Kreacher howled, holding fast to what Harry wanted. He was losing patience rather quickly though.

"Would your master be Regulus Black?" he guessed idly, picking at his thumb. He had seen the Black family tree not minutes earlier, when Sirius had given him the grand tour of the place. He hadn't sensed much brotherly love between Sirius and Regulus, but he wouldn't pretend to care about the circumstances that had torn them apart. Harry had a feeling it was more to do with what house Black had gotten into in Hogwarts, which made Harry think that everyone in the Wizarding World (or British wizards, at least) was fucking crazy.

He was torn out of his thoughts when Kreacher practically bounced out from his cupboard. Harry grimaced at the thing and resisted the urge to hold a hand over his mouth.

"Mudblood knows master Regulus?" Kreacher exclaimed, grabbing onto Harry's leg. "He knows of the task Kreacher has?"

Harry cleared his throat. "Yes, Kreacher," he agreed. "I'm here to finish the task." He tried not to make the last statement sound like a question, but he wasn't sure if it worked. Kreacher certainly bought it, though.

"Master!" the house elf yelled, grasping him tighter as Harry's eyes widened. "Mudblood master will take the locket. Will finish master Regulus' work!"

"Uh, right," Harry nodded as if pained and smiled as Kreacher threw the locket at him. He grasped it by the chain easily and took a quick look at it. This was a Horcrux, Harry knew, because immediately his heart raced and his breathing hitched. "Thank you, Kreacher," he said breathlessly.

As he made his way out of the pantry, the house elf continued to follow him, going on about his new master and Regulus' task, whatever that was. Harry turned about and grinned as best he could at the gnarled old thing. "Don't tell anyone about this, Kreacher, alright? It's our secret," he commanded.

"Kreacher won't tell a soul!"

"Thank you," he repeated. "Er, good work."

The house elf's admiring chatter followed him up the stairs, and once Harry closed the door to the pantry he breathed a sigh of relief. He stuffed the locket into his coat and congratulated himself on bullshitting so impeccably. Sirius called for him from the kitchen, and, with a slight roll of his eyes, he made his way back to his godfather. The Horcrux was heavy in his pocket.

.o00o.

Luckily, or unluckily, really, the danger to his family that Henry had predicted came true while Mary and the children were out. She had taken them to London for the day, uninviting John because she'd still remained rather cross with him. Their day trips, as Mary called them, were obviously to get away from the criminal asleep in the parlor and the dragon in the yard. John didn't blame her at all, but he would have liked to go to the London Zoo. McKay liked Zoos.

It was the wrong time to be thinking about it, though, since he was crouched behind a pillar in the atrium and cringing as bullets blasted plaster off of his shield. He reloaded his gun and ducked out to see how many were left. There were only three of them, thank god, but one, who could do the magical flashy shit Henry was capable of, was currently destroying anything in his path. The shots continued to hit the convenient pillar, and John sidled closer to the wall so he could see their reflections in the mirror behind the closed door.

Denny was safe in the parlor, the lucky bastard, and the only thing standing in the assailants' way to John was his gun. His gun that was running out of ammo.

He returned fire deftly, hearing a pained cry come from his left, and prepared to aim again when there was a sudden earth-shattering roar. A scream echoed throughout the entrance room, and John peaked out to see Bo chomp the man in half. The remaining two faltered in the wake of the violent death.

John whisked out of his hiding spot and fired, hitting one of the gun wielding fellows in the back. He went down with solid thump and a distressed howl. There was a loud shout, and the wizard of the group (the only one left) shot a curse at Bo's eyes. The dragon stomped about blindly, his tail swinging, until it caught the wizard around the waist and threw him bodily into the wall. With a crunch, the dry wall shattered like glass, and the man slid down into a crumpled heap. John hopped over the gore and made his way to Bo hesitantly.

"Dragon?" he asked as Bo shook his head over and over. "Dragon!"

Smoke blew out of Bo's nose and hit John square in the face, and, after the initial fear of being incinerated had passed, he whipped his hand through the air to get rid of the smoke and coughed dryly. "You okay, dragon?" he asked again.

Bo opened his eyes, their usual white a sore red, and snuffled indignantly. The force of the exhale flopped McKay's hair to the side. Taking that as a yes, he breathed a sigh of relief and nodded. "Good, Sparky would fucking kill me if you were hurt," he murmured. He took out his phone, looking at the remains of the two attackers and the unconscious wizard calmly. The ringing on the other end of the line lasted only a couple of seconds before Henry's voice came on the other end.

"John, are you—"

"Someone just attacked us," he interrupted, finding that his voice was quivering a bit. He cleared his throat. "Three of them," John tried again. "Two dead and one knocked out."

"Make sure that guy is out of it," Henry told him, and McKay walked over to the wizard and motioned for Bo to cover him. Blood pooled from the wound on the man's head, but he seemed to be breathing deeply, and, when John kicked him experimentally, he fell over like a rag doll and stayed there. "He's down," he said.

"Tie him up."

"Yeah, alright."

"McKay… are the kids and Mary alright?"

He was a little touched and very surprised that Henry would ask, though he made sure his tone of voice didn't relay that. "They're in London for the day," he said. Thank fucking god.

"Good," Henry panted, and he seemed to be running to somewhere. "I'll be there in two minutes. At the most."

"Take your time, why don't you?" John said sarcastically, and there was a winded chuckle before the line went dead. "Prompt motherfucker," he muttered as he closed his phone.

He tied up the wizard with practiced ease, doubling the knots while muttering about 'crazy magic tricks.' A whine from behind him drew his attention to Bo, who seemed to be writhing about with his wings twitching back and forth.

"What?" McKay snapped. "What is it?"

The dragon keened again, much like a dog would, and nudged John toward the kitchen. "Oh, fucking hell," he yelled, pushing the snout away. "You'll eat in a minute!"

The grousing didn't stop until John secured the last tie and cursed as he made his way to the kitchen. He came out with a raw slab of meat on a platter, nodding to Henry, who had arrived and seemed to be coddling the massive lizard. He put the dish down and watched as Bo tore into the meat wildly, getting blood all over the carpet.

"Oi, watch it!" he said, and then stopped once his eyes caught the remains of the attackers, the stains their deaths had made, and he gave up with a shake of his head. He threw his hands in the air and huffed, "Ah, fuck it."

He turned to Henry, whose eyes were fixed on the wizard tied to the chair. "Exciting day, it seems," he mentioned placidly.

"You know him?" John questioned, motion to their prisoner.

Henry breathed in through his nose and exhaled from his mouth heavily. "Yeah," he bit his bottom lip. "I know him."

The lad raised himself up from the crouch he'd been sitting in, somewhat tiredly making his way over to the captured assailant. John followed him and watched as Henry placed both of his hands on the man's head reverently. He noticed the blood stop as the wound started healing, then Henry ran a hand over the wizard's face and down his body. Healing him, John supposed.

"How's Denny?" Henry asked while he worked.

"Still asleep," he answered gruffly. "Mary watched his fever, and it peaked last night, but now it's gone completely."

"That's good," Henry said as he rose, finished. "Is your gun loaded?"

John checked. "Five rounds left."

"That's enough." Henry waved a hand over the wizard and his eyes shot open, settling on John for half a moment, before landing on Henry with what looked to be resigned affection. This man, in John's opinion, knew that he was going to die, and, oddly enough, it seemed as though he thought he deserved it.

Henry stood stiffly, his stare bright and unmerciful. He acknowledged the familiarity in their shared gaze, murmuring, "Francis."

.o00o.

He sat across from the bound and silenced Francis Gabriel, only slightly uncomfortable, given the person he was about to interrogate. He sighed as he crossed his legs, admonishing himself for feeling angry when he had known the confrontation was bound to happen some time. Henry hadn't counted on it being so soon, though.

Francis was speaking with the silencing charm on, fully aware that they couldn't hear him, but imploring Henry with the repetition of his name and pained, pleading eyes. Henry took the spell off just as Francis went silent.

"Thank you," he said, voice hoarse for some reason. Henry nodded his head as Francis dove into his excuses. "Just let me explain—"

"Maybe you shouldn't, Fran," Henry cut him off. "Save your act of contrition for someone else. You know me well enough to know I don't forgive."

It was the only part of the planned speech Henry had come up with, and he faltered there as he observed the first person he had ever had sexual relations with. Francis looked older, as was expected after almost two years. He would be twenty now, Henry recognized, and though it was a relatively young age in both of his worlds, Henry couldn't help but think Francis unbelievably ripened. Mixed in with the patience that Francis Gabriel was known for, that same serenity that Henry had been attracted to so long ago, there was regret - false or true - and resignation - that this encounter would be his last - in his eyes.

"It wasn't personal, Hen," Francis was saying. "You don't understand how far back my ties to my boss go. My father—"

"Shut up," Henry snapped, and, shamefully, his voice quivered. "Just… shut up."

Francis did so, though he'd opened his mouth a few times before thinking better of it.

"Were you working for Massimiliano when we were together?"

"If you're asking if the reason we got together was because of him, then no." He shook his head forcefully. "No, it didn't happen that way. It was only for a month or so before Denny—"

"Before you incarcerated my father," Henry finished for him. "Very dastardly, Fran. I didn't know you had it in you."

"Don't be like that," Francis snapped, tearing his bottom lip with his teeth. He shifted a bit, as much as the rope would allow. "You were never like that with me," he said.

Henry glared. "Things change," he bit out.

"Not this. Not us. You still love me."

He tried very hard not to laugh, chomping on the inside of his cheek, until finally the amusement overwhelmed him and he exhaled into laughter. John frowned at him, slightly disturbed, but Henry continued to fall about, unable to restrain himself.

"I—" he choked out. "I don't know if I ever loved you. _Like_, sure, but love?" Henry busted out in laughter again. "How conceited of you!"

"Fine," Gabriel gave in, rather crossly. "You care for me," he avowed.

"I did," Henry let out a half-sigh, half-chuckle. "Oh, fuck, I need a drink," he breathed out.

He left them briefly to get the decanter of scotch that was always on the kitchen table and poured two drinks. He walked in sipping the burning liquid and handed the other to John, who took it gratefully. A cigarette to go with it, and Henry found he was calm enough to proceed.

"Can I?" Francis nodded his head towards Henry's pack of smokes.

"Can you? No," John put in, taking great big gulps of his drink. "You're restrained at present. May you? Yeah, sure." He took a smoke for himself with a flourish.

Francis sneered at him before turning back to his ex-lover. "Go on and give us a fag, Henry," he whined.

Casting an amused look at John, Henry plucked another cigarette out and put it in Francis' mouth. He lit it and watched those familiar lips clench and unclench to take a drag.

"Thanks," he muttered, moving the stick to the side of his mouth.

"So," Henry said, adopting his previous position. "What were you doing in Tyler's manor today, Francis?" he asked, as if querying about the weather.

Francis scowled. "Denny's here, isn't he?" he said.

"No," Henry exhaled slowly. "I've placed him under wards in a safe place," he confessed.

"I'm not an idiot," Francis said gruffly. "He's here, and he's injured. Weak too, I bet."

"As weak as a fortnight," Henry said with a strained smile. "You came here to kill him," he assumed.

Francis nodded. "Ammon thinks he's a threat to the guild," he explained, taking another awkward drag.

"And you've no idea why?"

"He doesn't tell me anything," Francis admitted, and he chewed on the end of the filter thoughtfully. "I only know that Denny used to be a part of the guild. He left to join Tyler over a disagreement he'd had with Ammon."

Henry hummed, looking as expressionless as possible. "Victor is rather strict, I take it," he said offhandedly. "Where exactly is this guild, then?"

Francis fidgeted nervously, the ash gathering on the end of the smoke. "You know I can't tell you that," he said tightly, biting down on his lip.

"You know I'll find out one way or another," Henry responded pityingly.

"Do you ever think about how it used to be?" Francis asked, spitting his smoke out and looking at Henry steadily.

Already tired of this reunion of sorts, Henry brought out his pistol and stared at his ex-lover searchingly. "No," he said. And then, a bit more sincerely, he added, "Not in the way you would want me to."

The pistol settled between Francis' eyes. "Where is he? Where's Victor?"

Francis grinned. "You kill me, and you'll never know," he laughed.

"I don't need to torture you," Henry rationalized. "I just thought I'd give you the chance to redeem yourself."

He delved into Francis' mind after a mild struggle, in the form of Occlumency, which Henry swatted away like a fly. As he had hoped, the location was at the forefront of Francis' mind, and he scoffed at the obviousness of Ammon's headquarters.

He went deeper, sifting through the lies Francis had told him. His family was magical, and he had been home-schooled, like Henry. His father was a part of the guild, and Francis had been working for Massimiliano long before he had ever met Henry, using him just as ruthlessly as Henry had used Francis. And still, to this day, the older wizard underestimated him. Francis was still physically attracted to him, Henry was sorry to find out, and he seemed to genuinely regret betraying him, if only, it seemed, because of the power Henry now possessed.

And then there was the surprise.

Francis had indeed cared for Henry. Tyler, who (to this very day) Henry still felt bad for, had known of Fran's involvement with Ammon. He had cut a deal with Ammon to dispose of both Denny and Henry. Francis had objected, had pled that Tyler help to fake his own death to keep Henry alive. The deal, the infuriating deal, was that Henry would be Tyler's in the end. Denny would be in prison and unable to object, and Francis would escape Massimiliano's hold on him. But it had all gone south…

He sifted through more memories frantically, no doubt causing Fran pain, and found the one where Francis Gabriel had lost his own life. A booking for Delaware had exposed him, and Francis had been given an ultimatum: Kill Denny and Henry Brooks, or die.

Henry wrenched himself out of Francis' head, reeling with the knowledge of what had truly happened during the last few years. He was angry, because, instead of having all the answers, he now had more questions.

"Fuck," Francis cursed, wincing at the agony in his head. "That fucking hurt," he groused.

"I know what I needed to know now, Francis," Henry said, scarily stoic.

The man was silent, breathing heavily through his mouth. When he managed to speak, his voice was guttural and pained. "You saw that I regret," he tried.

"We all regret," Henry said callously. "And still, we are sometimes unforgiving."

"You can't—" Francis stopped and coughed harshly. "You can't understand my position? At all?"

"Our choices are always our own, Fran. We are never obligated to do anything."

Francis laughed a bit hysterically, pulling on his binds. "As cold as always, right, Hen? You never did take advice from anyone."

"I'm all grown up now," Henry told him. "And what advice do you have for me, Francis Gabriel?"

The man tiredly grinned, lolling his head to the side a bit, before he whispered, "A vaincre sans peril, on triomphe sans glorie."

Henry remembered.

"What the bloody fuck does that mean? And when did you learn French?" Henry had asked, nudging him with a smile. When Francis looked at him, however, he didn't seem happy at all.

"It's called school, Hen," he teased absently. "It means to win without peril is a triumph without glory."

"Oh," Henry laughed, "So I'm perilous, am I? You're risking a lot for glory, Francis."

His lover turned over and grasped his face gently before kissing him. "I know I am," he admitted, finally smiling. "But, then, so are you."

He closed his eyes as the memory came unbidden. There was no affection attached to that recollection now, despite Francis' attempt to show Henry just how well they knew each other, and that, more than anything, made Henry realize how little he would regret disposing of him.

Henry leaned forward and looked at Francis from the corner of his eye. "There's too much pride in your advice," he said. "You want me to let you go, you want me to forgive. I can't do that. I don't fucking want you to live."

Francis remained silent, breathing deeply.

"Besides," Henry went on. "I heard a better one the other day. Qui seme le vent recolte la tempete."

Laughingly, painfully, Francis threw his head back, and his smile turned to a frown. "I deserve that," he said, nodding. "I know I do."

Henry didn't say anything. Francis had an expression on his face that relayed internal agony. In his suffering, Henry could see figments of the past, of a storm they had both sowed, for Henry could recognize his own blame in their mutual mistakes, though he wouldn't go so far as to only fault himself. They had both been young, both on the verge of forsaking good intentions and resigning themselves to hell. He hoped, for Francis' sake, at least, that, in heaven, there was a god more merciful. Dwelling on their past issues would get him nowhere, Henry knew, because every problem he had run into in the last two years with the Muggle world was likely Victor's fault. The man was absolutely, positively, in for an ass kicking.

He put his cigarette to the side of his mouth and untied Francis.

"What—" John grabbed his hand. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"I'm letting him go," Henry told his friend, puffing inelegantly. He saw Francis perk up from the corner of his eye.

"Why…" McKay exclaimed, trying to stop him again, and Henry waved him away. "Why are you letting him go?"

Ignoring John for the moment, Henry threw the ropes to the side and looked at Francis carefully. "Go on," he said to the man. "Get running before I change my fucking mind."

Francis gaped at him, hardly aware of his released limbs as his gaze flickered from John to Henry quickly. "I—" he started.

"Just go," Henry barked, raising his pistol. Francis stood and held his hands up nervously. He gazed at Henry, his expression thankful and disbelieving.

"Thank you," he said tearfully, before turning and running out of the door. A still, yet torrential, silence followed his exit.

"What the fuck!"

"Bo," Henry called out, interrupting the beginning of John's tirade. The dragon looked up curiously.

"Look, Bo," he gestured toward Francis, who was jogging towards the gates. "Fast food."

Bo took off into the dying sunlight, his wings a sparkling, blinding white, and landed directly in front of the fleeing man. Henry watched the fear stiffen Gabriel's spine, and he couldn't help but chuckle. When the dragon wrapped its jaws around Francis Gabriel's head and squished it, Henry smiled happily and McKay gagged. "That's some fucked up shit," he choked.

"I always hated that little bastard."

Henry slung and arm over the chair he'd sat in and turned his body around, the small smile that had previously been on his face morphing into a large grin.

"Denny," he greeted.

"Christ," John said, still watching the grizzly scene on the lawn. "He's… oh, fuck! I'm not cleaning up that shit."

"Still a trollop, I see," Denny grunted, rubbing his stomach. "How long have I been asleep?"

Henry got up and stretched. "About a day," he said with a shrug.

"Damn," he cursed, running a hand through his graying hair. "Could you have made anymore of a ruckus?" He gestured to the bodies.

McKay scowled in agreement. "I'd better get this cleaned up before Mary comes back," he complained, glancing at Bo and his meal with a shiver. "And you're going to fucking help me," he snapped at Henry.

He knew better than to argue. Denny raised his eyebrows and nodded approvingly at John.

"You should be resting," Henry said to his father. "You look like shit."

"I've had a bad time of it recently, you little fucker!" Denny cursed at him. "I'm also quite famished, if you must know," he said as he marched into the kitchen. "A cup of tea and I'll be tip-toeing through the fucking tulips."

His arrival in the kitchen was a lot noisier than it should have been. Pots and pans clanged to the ground and cursing could be heard as Denny proved that not even prison could improve the worst of tempers. Henry smiled, took one last look at the havoc they'd caused in so little time, and made towards the kitchen to help his father.


	23. Chapter Twenty Two

A/n: Action, action, action. We have a battle in this chapter, and a lot of mayhem and foolishness. I also kind of beat Harry up in this one, whoops. But, it's the end of an arch here, and I am certainly moving fast after this. Speed racer up in here. Enjoy the chapter, and thanks so much for the reviews and Birthday wishes! It was super sweet and I love you all. Thanks again!

**Note**: the first part of this chapter takes place before McKay is attacked and Francis is…eaten. I went backwards on this because I didn't want to leave you guys with another cliffhanger for the last chapter. Whoa, chapter rhymes with raptor (Jesus?).

_Avoir un chat dans la gorge_ : a cat in your throat. Don't even fucking ask.

A Few Responses: Ncgal: take your time, love, I'm rather busy at the moment so I can afford to lounge and wait for your requests. I hope you like this chapter as much as the last one. Oh, and my Birthday was lots of fun, thank you! Fudgebaby: Hi, darling! Glad you liked the chapter! You didn't log in...naughty naughty. Anon: thanks so much! Enjoy the chapter. Sarah: charmer.

Warnings for this chapter: violence, cursing, slight racism, CD, dramatics, and religious jokes (how tasteless!)

* * *

Pistol Whipped

Chapter Twenty-Two

Dinner in the Great Hall was always a vociferous affair. Tonight, it was no different, and though Harry sat in between Hermione and Ron, their bickering, which was always without reprieve whenever food was on the table, continued on as if he wasn't in the middle.

Granger had a sincere problem with Ron's eating habits, which Harry had gotten used to long ago, and today she began her barrage of belittling him with a sly comment about his manners. From there, they proceeded into a full blown row that Harry was unable to ignore. He almost wished he was back beside Snape and Dumbledore at the professors' table. He'd take two of the most exasperating people he had ever met over the squabbling Ron and Hermione. He turned away from their violent foreplay, catching Ginny's eye as he put his head into his hands and sighed. She grinned at him.

From across the room, Draco Malfoy had been trying to get Harry's attention for the past twenty minutes. Draco's eyes twitched to the door in a rather obvious summon, and Harry tilted his head as he rose. He wasn't even finished with his dinner, but Hermione was now lecturing on socially acceptable behavior, and that was pretty much his cue to leave.

"Where you going?" Ron cut Hermione off to ask him. Her face went red with indignation.

"Sleep, mate," Harry answered, clapping him on the back briefly. "I need to get some shut-eye if I want to look beautiful in the morning."

Ginny and a boy Harry didn't know laughed. "You should take a page out of his book, Ron," she ribbed. "It might get rid of the spattergroit."

"This is an affliction I don't know about, Ronald," Harry added, looking insulted. "I thought we were best mates?"

"Slag on someone else!" Ron shouted. "And they're bloody freckles!"

Harry walked away from them, laughing, and even from the doors of the Great Hall he could hear Hermione admonishing Ron for being too noisy.

"Potter," Malfoy called when Harry had made it into the hall. Harry nodded for him to follow, and he deftly lit a smoke as he walked.

"How can I be of service, Malfoy?" he asked, not masking the innuendo at all in order to preserve Draco's _innocent_ ears. The boy grimaced at him, and Harry laughed delightedly.

"I don't want a repeat of last week, Potter. I'd rather have a conversation, if you don't mind."

Harry stopped completely, tilting his head to the side with a quick raise of his eyebrow. "Really?" he asked skeptically, before dragging Draco by his arm towards a shady corner behind a large stone lion. He leaned forward, touching his hands to Draco's chest. "Somehow, I think you're lying," he argued.

Malfoy's eyelashes fluttered for a moment, and Harry smiled. "You're too obvious, Draco Malfoy," he breathed.

Pushing away from him, Draco gathered himself and glared at Harry furiously. "Really, Potter, I don't think you know enough about me to boast like that."

"What, like the taste of your cock? I'm pretty sure that's vital information in some circles."

"Don't be crass," Malfoy snapped, straightening his robes. "I'm rather confused about where you stand, exactly. I hate that you don't have any loyalties that I can blackmail you with."

Grinning, Harry crossed his arms and looked around the hall before turning back to the blond and biting his lip. "You're being very honest, Draco," he pointed out. "You want me to give you something to use should the Dark Lord think you useless, right?"

"I _want _reassurance," Malfoy scowled, and then in a show of courage, he moved forward into Harry's space. "I'd be a fool if I took your pretty arse and ignored just how underhanded you are."

Harry didn't back away. "Hasn't anyone ever told you, love," he said, his words like silk, "that playing with fire could very well get you burned?"

Malfoy was panting, and there was a beautiful flush on his cheeks that betrayed his arousal. Harry suddenly wanted Draco to touch him very much, but it looked as though neither of them wanted to make a move in the uncertain game they were playing.

"Ha," Draco let out a breath in laughter, and it tickled Harry's face like quick flames. The boy seemed very proud of himself all of a sudden, and he moved out from the shady alcove and arched his neck. "I _can _control you," he said to Harry, confidence and smugness coloring his words.

Harry was laughing now, and he leaned against the stone wall and wrapped his arms around his stomach. "Prove it," he challenged. Excitement pulsed through him, enough thrill to make him giddy with the need to _be_ controlled – if Draco was as up to it as he seemed to think he was.

Predictably, the blond took two steps closer and pushed Harry into the wall, straightening him out against the bare granite. Harry breathed in quickly through his mouth, and Draco chased the breath in before stopping an inch from Harry's lips. Close enough to kiss, surely, but the kiss never came. Instead, Draco stepped back and gave him a sly grin, full of gloating success. Harry's initially disappointed expression morphed into true amusement, and he laughed outright.

"Well played," he complimented, chuckling shortly. He reached into his pocket and held out something swaddled in a russet duster, a fine one he had stolen from the House of Black before his departure. "Your bargaining chip," Harry explained, his hand aloft.  
Draco took it from him, looking at Harry suspiciously before reaching up to see what was inside. "Don't touch it," Harry warned him, leaning against the wall and finishing his smoke.

Frowning indignantly, Draco flicked back the cloth and gazed at the necklace. "A locket, Potter?" he queried, askance. "Is this sufficient leverage or a token of your appreciation? Do I seem overtly mawkish?"

Harry dragged the cigarette away from his lips, a trail of smoke following its exodus, and nodded to the necklace placidly. "It's a piece of the Dark Lord's soul," he clarified. "One of seven, according to our esteemed Head. Should the Dark Lord turn his red-eyed fury upon you, dearest Draco, you may give him this to save your life."

"I'm guessing that you're not supposed to have this," Draco said, unable to not gape at the locket in his hand.

"Oh, I am," he shrugged. "He knows I am aware of the pieces of his soul floating about."

"But not that you're collecting them."

Harry only smiled.

"You _are_ going to destroy him," Malfoy nearly gasped. He took a step back, perhaps realizing what sort of treason he had said out loud. Or perhaps Harry had scared him into believing he may be on the wrong side.

"You have your life, Draco," Harry said, jutting the cigarette butt towards the locket. He stubbed out the smoke and smiled. "Now that you know I'm serious, and good for my word, maybe you should think about coming over to the winning side?"

Draco shook his head, laughing to keep from going into hysterics. "What _side_, Potter? You're bloody nutters, you haven't got a side!"

Harry grinned at him, and then reached out to grasp Draco's face. He kissed as passionately as he did everything, and when he pulled away he was quite chuffed to see Draco breathless and sufficiently dazed. He didn't bother answering Draco, and as he made off down the hall and back to his rooms, he could see the blond in his mind's eye…still waiting in anticipation for either enlightenment or another lustful kiss. Harry quite enjoyed teasing the boy, and he was glad for a place to put the locket while he wasn't in need of it. Draco seemed to be rather useful, after all.

.o00o.

"The Vatican?" John said, disbelief raising his voice. "_The _Vatican?"

"Is there a fake one I don't know about?" Henry asked sarcastically.

"They can't just take over the Vatican," John mentioned rather chidingly. "Do the holy people know he's even there? That's just fucking wrong."

"What makes you think the Pope doesn't know about it?" Denny asked, his mouth full of toast. "He's in on it. Consider that funny hat he wears."

John didn't respond to that, thankfully, and Henry shook his head forcefully. "We're not killing the Pope, Denny."

"You've gone soft," he said, pointing his crust at his son.

"I haven't," Henry objected. "Why would we need to kill the poor old bloke? Besides, it's a secret business, this guild. They're hidden at the Vatican thinking no one would suspect, but it _is _rather obvious."

"How is it obvious?" John piped up, swallowing down a glass of water. "I wasn't aware most men of ambiguous morality hid out in monuments of certain religions."

Denny frowned at John, crumbs scattered on his chin, and Henry motioned for his father to relax. "_You know_, it makes what they're doing something holy. Makes them seem more powerful," he explained to McKay.

"Holy crime?" the man coughed in incredulity. "Whatever you say, Sparky."

"The headquarters has always been beneath the Vatican. I bet all those tossers in the wonky robes know exactly what goes on down there," Denny said conspiratorially.

"So," John interrupted, unclenching his teeth. "A secret organization of wizard assassins are beneath a holy landmark miles and miles away from us. How are we supposed to pull this off?"

Henry slapped his hands on his thighs enthusiastically. "I have no idea," he admitted blankly after a moment, deflating a bit. "We also only have forty-eight hours to get to Italy and destroy one of the most powerful cults in the world. Anybody have any ideas?"

"A nuke!" Denny yelled just as John said, "Why forty-eight hours?"

"That's the designated time slot one has when one kills a man from Ammon's merry band for a location. After forty-eight hours, the party will have moved from the premises, because they'll know their man's position was compromised. It looks like Ammon doesn't have his men check in routinely any more. Every hour is usually best, but he was never the sharpest knife in the drawer," Denny elaborated, pouring another healthy cup of tea.

"Or he could be a very smart man," Henry put in mildly. "It could be a trap."

"Do you think it is?" asked John, sharing a nervous look with Denny.

"It's more than likely, given how much he seems to hate us," Henry supposed.

McKay scratched his head. "That would suck," he admitted with a short shrug.

"He's setting a trap, but he won't expect what we'll have with us," Denny said, lounging in his chair and rubbing his belly. He gave Henry a significant look. "When we get there, his men will likely be waiting for us to-"

"_We_?" Henry interrupted, getting impatient. He lit a smoke and handed one to McKay distractedly. "I don't think you're going anywhere, Den. You're still recovering."

Denny cocked his pistol and shoved it in Henry's face. "Shut the fuck up. I'm going," he said. Henry noticed then, a bit belatedly, that Denny had stolen that particular pistol off of him, and a quick pat down of his pockets assured him of the man's sleight of hand. He rolled his eyes, but didn't bother asking for it back.

He resignedly turned to McKay. "Denny's going with me," he said as he pushed the barrel out of his face. "It's no use arguing; he's as stubborn as a mule."

"And I am too," John said. "I'm guessing you'll be pulling out the modified weapons we've heard so much about, and you'll need every man you can get."

"Yes," he affirmed absentmindedly, blowing a cloud of smoke in Denny's direction. He ignored the coughing and continued. "Bo will stay here with your family, in case they go after the manor again."

John seemed relieved, and he sat back with a small sigh and a nod.

"Sounds good to me," Denny said, obviously tiring of the conversation.

"What about reinforcements?" John piped up, cautiously. "I don't want to go in there shooting and end up walking straight into a five-hundred man trap."

"You don't think we can handle it, eh?" Henry asked teasingly, stubbing out his smoke.

John appeared to think on that intensely. "With the CON and the APOC?" he finally said. "We'll be alright, I suppose. But, just in case…"

"You leave it to me, okay?" Henry retorted with poise. "Are we ready to go, then?" He looked around at both men, who seemed oddly surprised that they would be moving so soon. Denny scowled, having just gotten comfortable digesting.

"Now?" John murmured, his eyes shifting nervously.

"Yes, _now_," Henry bit out impatiently. "We need to stop by Frankie's, to get the guns, and then we'll be off." He put his hands on the counter and pushed up from his seat.

John gave in and scribbled a short note to Mary. When they went into the living room (cleaned quickly and efficiently thanks to magic), Bo was taking up the sofa and an arm chair, sleeping like a ridiculously large mammal.

"Out!" John shouted, and the dragon's head popped up. "Mary will have a shit fit if he's in the house."

"Outside, Bo," Henry told him, and, with much grumbling and a gust of smoke in John's direction, Bo lumbered out into the backyard.

"You don't have a Ferrari, do you?" Denny asked John, scratching the stubble beneath his chin.

"No," he said confusedly. "I have a Ford."

"Ah, good then. That animal," he pointed flamboyantly to Bo. "It's partial to Ferraris. Ate mine like it was Turkish Delight."

"He said he was sorry for that, Den," Henry returned, waving them over. "That was years ago."

"I've a memory like an elephant," Denny scoffed. "I also had to pay thirty thousand to replace the body and the interior. Anyone would remember that shit."

Bo snuffled from outside and stuck his head in the open window. "Tell your human father I'm most definitely not sorry now. And that he looks like an elephant, too."

Henry snickered.

"What did he say? _What did he say_ about me?" Denny shouted, waving a hand at Bo to shoo him away. If dragons could blow raspberries, Henry was sure that that was what Bo would be doing.

He shook his head and held out his hands. "Hold hands, loves," he said mockingly.

"Trollop!"

"Asshole."

They popped away from the manor, leaving Bo to make faces at empty air, and arrived back in New York.

"Denny!" Frank hopped up from his seat, the papers strewn about the desk toppling over and onto the floor with his abrupt movement. "You old bastard!"

Denny raised his eyebrows and walked forward, taking Frank's hand in a quick but friendly handshake. "You're the old bastard, McAllister," Denny said with a grin. "How's business?"

"Booming ever since your kid came here," Frank informed him. "The little shit reduced a lot of the competition and managed to create an army."

Denny glared at a sheepish looking Henry. "You know," Henry said to his father, shrugging and trying to seem innocent. "I had a bit of time on my hands."

The glower did not waiver, and Henry fidgeted under a stare that, not three hours ago, he thought he had missed. "We'll talk about this later," Denny said stiffly.

John made a face at the suddenly tense atmosphere and said to Frank loudly, "We're going to need the guns, boss."

Frank gave them a suspicious glare. "What for?" he demanded, crossing his arms.

"We're going on a mission," Denny extrapolated, sitting down on the first available chair with a heavy huff. "A seek-and-destroy, like the good old days. We may encounter resistance in the form of hundreds of magic-wielding morons, face imminent death, especially considering how badly we're outnumbered, and probably go down in history as the precocious blokes who tore down the Holy Vatican." He crossed himself and snapped his fingers. Henry snorted.

Frank didn't have to think about that information for long. "Sounds like one hell of a party," he smirked. "I'm guessing this has something to do with Massimiliano, Hen?"

"Got it in one," Henry admitted. "Denny here was involved with the chit, but he's less than forthcoming with that information." He tapped the side of his head. "Prison made him a bit addled, you see."

"I'm not addled," Denny objected heatedly. "You never asked me, you prat. I worked for the guild for about a year in eighty-two. Didn't like their rules, so I left. Victor shat a brick thinking I was going to revolt against them, which is understandable, since I was the best man they had." He sniffed and straightened his coat, and Henry shook his head in exasperation. "Or non-magical bloke, anyway. He's been after me ever since."

"You knew that he had wizards?" Henry asked cautiously.

"I knew they could do some light tricks," Denny lifted a shoulder idly. "Didn't know they were wizards or anything."

John shook his head. "So then what's the big deal? Why go after you if you knew next to nothing about them?"

"Because Victor's a paranoid pain in the arse," he explained.

"That's it?" both Frank and Henry said.

"That's it." Denny shrugged and cleared his throat. "It's not like I did anything wrong. The man's such a bloody bastard, he makes Hitler look like a piker."

Henry nodded and sniggered. "Which means this is probably a trap," he said.

"Probably," Denny said, telling Henry that he was of the same mind. "Perhaps if we survive, Hen, you'll explain what ruckus you've been up to while I was in prison."

Clapping his dad on the shoulder, Henry gave a faux grin and clucked his tongue. "You're so not making me want to live through this one," he said with mocking excitement.

Denny, Henry knew, would never demand information when time was of the essence. Especially never when a mission was afoot, because the man (who had taught Henry everything he knew) took on the mind-set of 'act now, question later' when faced with an overwhelming task, such as infiltrating enemy territory. Henry felt a rush of familiarity and affection for the proceedings, of a sudden. It was good to have Denny, and all the song and dance that came with him, back.

"No rest for the wicked, eh, Den?" Frank prodded cheekily, as if reading Henry's mind. "Well then," he said, and rose to gather the decanter of scotch from the mantel. "A little liquid courage, gentlemen?"

They all nodded, some more enthusiastically than others. Harry took his glass and smiled. "You'll have the men ready in case I call?" he asked, feeling the need to make sure.

Frank gave him a slightly insulted glare. "I had men ready the moment you entered the manor with Denny. You two always have something up your ass." He paused and suddenly blushed. "That is to say," Frank back-peddled, "a _fire __under_ your ass about something."

Denny frowned, smacking his lips rudely. "What's he mean by something in my ass?" he demanded suspiciously.

"He means that I'm a trollop, Den," Henry corrected swiftly. John coughed out a laugh and looked at Frank's fierce glower, biting his lip.

"You are that," Denny nodded, holding out his glass for more.

"A toast, my friends?" Frank motioned, clearing his throat. "To necessary evils." He smirked as he lifted up his drink.

John and Denny snorted, but raised theirs as well. Henry grinned. "To unmitigated success," he toasted cheerfully.

"Or unmitigated failure," McKay added his two cents.

Denny took a healthy sip of his drink and raised it again. "To Aberdeen F.C.! Oh, when the reds go steaming in…."

Henry rolled his eyes, and they drank to necessary evils, unmitigated success or failure, and Aberdeen F.C. They left to face uncertain death not five minutes later. Off to Italy, where Victor Massimiliano had stationed his troops. Off to victory or defeat, riding on the waves of absolute peril, and into obscurity. Henry found he would have it no other way.

"Ole, ole, ole. We are the Dons!"

"Denny, _shut up!_"

.o00o.

The Vatican certainly lived up to its pomp and circumstance reputation. John and Henry had never been to the Holy palace, though Denny had frequented Vatican City when he had worked for Victor. He hadn't set foot in the actual cathedral, however, because Ammon utilized the passageways of the city to get to the main chamber where he and his nest of assassins met for gatherings. They had hidden in an adjacent alley, just short of the massive dome shaped building, watching for patrolling guards as Henry put a short term Glamour Charm on them.

"Why do I have to be the fat one?" McKay complained, looking at his beer belly with open disdain.

"You're the American one," Henry said shortly, and cut John off when he started to protest once more. "Stop grousing, I'll take it off when we get inside."

They couldn't use the channels. Henry suspected Victor _was_ ridiculously paranoid, as Denny had mentioned, and had put most of his men at the entrance to the passage. They would have a better chance of survival if they went straight into the chamber itself. Francis's mind had supplied the invaluable layout, and, given Denny's exclusive knowledge of the inside of the chamber, Henry knew what he had to do. Unfortunately, there was no way into the main assembly room. They would have to use the door hidden inside the left staircase of St. Peter's Basilica, which would then lead to a stairway that descended into the antechamber that would lead to Victor.

Henry wasn't at all worried about the wards; he could snap them, however powerful or webbed they were. What did concern him, however, were the traps Ammon might have set up had he correctly predicted that they would choose the easy way in. Henry thought it was a bit odd that he was so anxious about that part of the mission. He had gone on impossible tasks before and had rarely, if ever, batted an eye at an enemy's defense. Henry supposed it had to with him not going solo this time. It had to do with Denny, who he had just gotten back, being in danger and leaving again. And, this time, it could be forever.

It would be stupid, though, to try and stop Denny from joining them, and so Henry swallowed audibly and finished the Glamour on his father.

"Am I still fit?" Denny asked him, running a hand through his now red hair.

"You're still fit," Henry assured, passing a hand over his own face quickly.

"Whoa."

"Ha!" Denny pointed at his face. "I didn't think you'd make yourself ugly, Hen! Thought your vanity wouldn't stand for it!"

Henry scowled at him. "I am not vain, Mr. Am-I-still-fit!" He sniffed and grabbed up the duffel bag filled with three CONS and three APOCS. "Let's go, you old berks," he said, motioning them forward.

"Old, fat berks, in his case," Denny said, jutting a thumb at John.

"God damn it, Sparky!"

They made their way toward the crowded Piazza San Pietro, mixing in with the tourists deftly. Henry, strolling beside his companions with a camera around his neck, marked seven men as most likely to be Ammon's. One wizard stood outside of the doorway they were making for. They made a show of pointing out various landmarks until Henry walked over to the man guarding the stairway. He snapped a photo in the guard's face.

"Bonjour. Parlez-vous Francais?"

The man stared at him. "No," he said tightly.

"Oui, English," Henry continued on in a very heavy accent. "Vat are zose guards zere?"  
He pointed to the brightly dressed men in front of the Basilica. Denny and John sidled up next to him, looking confused.

"I'm not a tour guide," the guard said, his accent clipped and obviously of Spanish decent. Henry didn't budge, staring at the man blandly before giving him a vacant grin.

"They're the Swiss Guard," the man told him, giving in with a sigh.

"Ah, oui, oui," Henry said, and then turned to his companions. "Avoir un chat dans la gorge." John and Denny gaped at him. "Merci bien, eh, vhy are you standing zere?"

"Uh," the Spaniard floundered for a moment. "I work for the guard."

"Bon sang!" Henry exclaimed. "Zose guardz?" He pointed excitedly over to the Papal sentinel. The man followed his finger, and John hit him on the back of the head with the end of his pistol. While Henry had spoken to the disgruntled man, he had gradually picked apart the wards. Now they were able to push the door open and shove the man in when he began to collapse. Unfortunately, he didn't simply slump over inside the hidden room; instead, he went head over heels down the stairway until he landed at the bottom with a sickening crack.

"Ah, shit," John cursed as they shuffled inside, closing the door behind them. "Think that was noticeable enough?"

"We've got a trial ahead, mates," Denny said, stepping between them from the back. They gazed down at the crumbled form of the dead guard for a few moments until Denny turned to his son, looking curious. "I didn't know you spoke French," he mentioned. "What did you say about a cat?"

"I don't speak French," Henry said gruffly, dropping his duffle and pulling out the guns. "And I have no idea. Most of the French I picked up was from Francis. What did I say about a cat?" he asked as he handed the weapons over.

"Something about eating one? I don't know; it was nutty."

"Can you take this shit off of me now?" John snapped, grabbing the proffered CON. "I'm fucking fat as hell."

Henry waved an impatient hand and they all returned to their natural state. "Are we ready?" he questioned them, tired of the whining.

They nodded and, as a group, made their way down the stairs as quietly as possible. Stepping over the Spaniard, they made it to a hall that split into two narrow staircases. "Which way, French boy?" John whispered.

"I'm never going to live that down," Henry muttered to himself. "The right," he said, leading them onward.

In a line, they went towards the darker staircase. Henry stopped once they heard voices traveling towards them. The lone candle at the bottom of their path flickered with the movement of the men who were walking closer and closer to their position.

"More frogs," Denny growled, adjusting the strap to the CON around his shoulder.

"Et elle dit, oui, etes un imbecile."

"Putain, la fait chier!"

"What are they saying?" John whispered, unafraid to be overheard because of the less than stealthy guards.

Before Henry could tell them, _again_, that he didn't speak French, Denny muttered, "I know what they're on about!" He hopped down the last few steps before Henry could stop him.

"Le Fuck!" he shouted, and shot them both quickly, using at least twelve rounds for no other reason than that he could. Henry sighed and moved after him.

"Charming, dad," he said, shaking his head.

Another long traipse down a staircase, and, eventually, they came to a door. Henry disabled the wards quickly, and then he placed both hands on the ornately carved oak. He saw another passage in his mind's eye, after the door, leading to two entrances and a line of guards. "Alright," he said, pulling away. "When we get in, John, you take out the men on your left, I'll get the pikers to the right, and Denny's got the others on my left."

"Sure," John nodded amiably.

"You were a sharp shooter once, right, McKay?"

"Once," he admitted, scratching his chin. "In the army."

"Good. Take the CON and go into the door on the left, there shouldn't be more than two or three guards. It will lead to a balcony over the chamber. Stay there and pick off the ones we miss."

"I don't miss," Denny grunted quickly. "We're going into the main room?"

"We are," Henry confirmed before he snapped his head up very suddenly. "There's a troupe coming down the way we came. Took them long enough." He took his own CON and shoved his APOC in his pocket. "Victor will retreat into the joint room at the far end of the hall. We need to destroy as many as possible and then haul ass to that door. He can't get away."

He paused to listen to the approaching men. "Uncle John," he murmured. "The moment we disappear into the room that Victor will try and escape to, you get the fuck out."

Hesitating, McKay looked at them both with a frown before Denny grinned and clasped Henry on the shoulder. "We'll be fine," he assured the man.

"Yeah," he nodded, taking the amulet that was likely a Portkey from Henry. "Alright," he sighed.

"Let's all try not to die, okay?" Henry told them. "There's too much shit left to do."

Denny laughed and McKay smiled. He flung open the door, quickly casting a temporary shield around them, and they took out the guards with as little noise as possible. When the last body had fallen, breaking into flakes of ash as he hit the stone, John split from them and made his way up the stairs to the left with only a short grin by way of goodbye and good luck. Henry and Denny faced the door to the chamber and took a breath.

"Let's go, you little shite," Denny said, grabbing him around the neck. Henry pushed the door open, and they started to shoot.

.o00o.

He felt sweat pool at his shoulders, from both exertion and the heat of the room, and it sunk and trickled down his skin like hot tears. Back to back, they moved forward against the tide of steadily falling men. The sounds of gunshots were dwindling, replaced instead by the tinkle of wasted ammunition hitting the ground. To Denny, beneath the sting of sweat dribbling into his eyes, the bullets looked like rain. Ash gathered in bouts across the room. Fireworks of a fine, silvery powder, the residue, landed in Denny's hair and scattered across his eyelashes.

He couldn't help but smile at the ease of the CON, which made it almost ridiculously simple to incapacitate Victor's army. Some still remained, running to whatever exit they could to escape the terrible power of the guns. They were picked off, one by one, as they scrambled to open the warded door. One last gun hit the ground with a clatter, and one last guard raised his hands in surrender. He was covered in the ashes of his fellows, looking resigned and drawn. Denny shot him, and the way was clear.

Henry motioned him forward, pointing towards the door Victor had fled out of, and Denny hopped over guns and remains to get to his son. He saluted an invisible John before following Henry into the room. They shoved open the door, and Henry dove them both out of the way before a Bone Shattering Curse could cripple them. It hit the door frame, cracking through a pillar and flinging debris over their heads. Henry growled and got up.

"Wizards," Denny grunted as he rose, taking the hand his son offered. "Never a fair fight."

Looking around at the chanting men blocking the room Victor had gone into, Henry breathed in deeply and shook ash out of his hair. So this was Victor's wizard army of assassins? There were close to fifty before them, and Henry estimated another fifty in the room with Massimiliano. He glanced at his father, raised his pistol, and said in a pant and with a smile, "I've made it a fair fight."

The modified bullet sunk through their wards and hit one wizard directly in the face. His skeleton, a shadow of cinders, was solid for half a moment before it buckled. Ammon's wizards stopped chanting and went on the offensive.

"I'm quite partial to modern advancements!" Denny shouted over the blasting curse that hit the wall behind him. Henry dodged a particularly lethal looking variation on a Stinging Hex and blocked a wall of fire heading for his father.

Despite the obvious power the wizards had, the bullets kept hitting them. They fell swiftly and almost silently. Then they turned their eyes on Denny, who was the only one shooting at the moment. Henry was in a fierce contest with an ugly looking witch in red robes, his fire-bright, green Decapitation Curse stuck in midair by the ice pouring out of her hands.

Denny saw him struggling and took a shot with the pistol, hitting her in the temple, but he was unable to defend himself from the two wizards casting Killing Curses at his back. Henry shouted incoherently, and a large block of the broken wall flew in front of the unforgivable curses in the nick of time.

They both breathed a sigh of relief, and Denny gave him the thumbs up before they dove back into battle.

Shooting without pause, Denny kept chipping away at the wizards guarding the door. He felt Henry block the waves of magic coming at him; he heard cries of distress and death, and the numbers dwindled so very quickly that he couldn't help but throw his head back and laugh. Impossibly, it seemed like they were winning.

And then he heard it, a yell that was all too familiar. _  
_

He whipped around, both guns ready to shoot, and had just enough time to see a wizard push into his son and _fling_ him towards the very room they had wanted to get into. Henry's body bent, his eyes screwed shut, and he hit the merciless wall so hard Denny felt as though he could feel the impact as well. The boy went through the solid cement, crashing into the next room, where rubble and rock fell on top of him.

"You fucker!" Denny yelled at the wizard. He aimed and fired, and that infernal smirk on the man's face disintegrated into nothing. He only felt mildly satisfied, however, and he shot the CON randomly behind his back as he ran towards the now unguarded door. Fire followed him, scorching the ends of his shirt and the heels of his shoes, and he tore through the entryway and landed on his knees next to his son. Henry was trying in vain to get his leg out of the rubble, his head bloody and his face covered in dirt.

"Use your magic!" Denny shouted into Henry's ear, but the boy shook his head and gestured to the hole he had made when he'd been tossed through the wall. There was a thin blue shield around the gap and the door, and Denny thought it must be some kind of ward. A ward that was obviously taking up all of Henry's power and concentration.

"You'll have to move it!" Henry told him. "And hurry the fuck up, this hurts!"

Denny slung the CON over his shoulder (making it lie on his back), rubbed his hands together, and lifted the massive slip of rock that had trapped Henry's leg. Blood immediately spewed where a sharp end had sunk into the lad's flesh, and Denny flinched as it gushed out of the nearly crushed leg. He took off his duffle coat and made a tourniquet, watching Henry grit his teeth as he tightened the knot around his thigh.

"Can you stand?" he asked, wincing again as the wizards on the other side of the ward threw a particularly powerful fireball at them.

Henry nodded, breathing heavily, and allowed himself to be lifted up and pushed against the wall. Denny checked his head, where blood fell in trickles down the side of his cheek, but when he reached for the arm Henry was coddling, the boy drew back with a hiss.

"Is it broken?"

Henry coughed. "Yeah," he said. "It took everything I had to cushion the impact on my spinal cord, but the other limbs were fair game, dad."

Denny slapped his cheek gently. "You're just all fucked up, aren't you?" He grinned breathlessly, concerned and amused all at once.

"It was a lucky shot," Henry teased, licking his lips. "We need to kill the rest of them."

"Why can't we just leave the ward up?"

"Because I need to fucking heal myself, and I'll need my magic to get Victor!" the lad snapped, pain and impatience adding an edge to his already hysteric tone. Denny leaned Henry against him and rubbed a hand across his son's back.

"I got you, Hen. We'll finish it."

Henry nodded gratefully. "I need you to start shooting the moment I drop the ward. I'm going to try and soak in some of the backlash of the enchantment ending. If I can gather enough of the magic I, and they, put into it, I could use it to get rid of them."

"Like a live grenade?" Denny asked, nodding. "Sounds good. Ready when you are, Hen!"

It didn't go quite as they planned. Denny held up against them fine, managing to ash two unsuspecting wizards before Henry gathered enough of a fireball to throw at them. They flailed about until the flames ate away too much and they fell still. Henry grinned at his dad and prepared to offer him a well-done, but a slow rumble interrupted them. Henry looked up at the ceiling of the chamber and the hall, and his eyes widened comically. It began to crumble.

"Ah, fuck," he cursed, and Denny grabbed onto him as they sprinted towards the other door. Behind them, the ceiling wavered and collapsed, but they made it out of the hall before a huge mound of dust and rocks busted through the entrance and scattered debris into the hall. Denny climbed on top of his son and shielded their heads, feeling boulders whisk by, just missing him, and one measly rock slam into his leg, bruising it. The roar of the falling wreckage receded, and Denny heard Henry cough from beneath him.

He turned onto his side and looked his son over. They were both covered in dust and dirt, and Henry's face was so pale that his eyes had never looked greener.

"Well done," Denny said sarcastically, standing up and brushing his pants off. "Really, good show."

"Oh, shove off," Henry snapped, rather frustrated. Denny pulled them both upright and helped his son hobble across the ruins to grab up their guns as they looked out for more guards. Henry was wheezing pretty badly, and Denny pushed back his concern and focused on getting out of there.

He moved Henry to the closest door, hoping it was a way out. "What are you doing?" the boy asked, panting still. "We've got to find Victor!"

"Fucking shut up, kid!" Denny barked, before kicking open the door and dragging himself and Henry through. He looked up into the barrel of a gun.

"How nice of you to visit," a voice echoed across a small dining hall. Henry looked past the guard pointing the gun at them at Victor Massimiliano, who stood surrounded by the other half of his wizard army. "Though I could have settled for a meeting without the violence."

Denny, who had his own pistol aimed at the forehead of the man who was aiming a gun at Henry's face, shouted, "Drop it! You don't want violence? Tell them to put their sticks away!"

"I can't do that," Victor scoffed, and his voice was heavily accented and slimy like something underhanded. "Your son is facing death, Brooks. He looks awful. In fact, I think it might be a mercy if we were to shoot him right now."

The gun in Henry's face cocked, and Denny twitched his own pistol nervously. Victor laughed. "Perhaps _you_ should drop _your_ weapons," he hissed.

Denny shot the man in the face, and Henry ducked under the bullet that had come from the other gun, grabbing the APOC out of his pocket and firing nonstop into the crowd. Denny moved with the CON, the room filling with gray flesh and bones as he proceeded, and in the middle of all the destruction, watching the desperate murder and defeat of the wizards before them, was Victor Massimiliano, wide-eyed and horrified.

Everything fell to the floor, emphasizing the three men standing amidst the disturbing evidence of death. Henry lowered his good arm, his magic stitching up his leg as he smiled past the pain. Denny kept his gun pointed at Victor, who suddenly found himself alone.

"Now," Denny said, rather pleased with himself. "Drop your weapon."

Victor's wand clattered to the floor.

"Do you realize what you've done?" the man said breathlessly as Brooks and his son grinned at each other. "These weapons you have created! They're dangerous, and I know what you mean by using them. I know what you want! You will destroy _everything_."

Denny waved a hand at him as if to say, "Shut the fuck up, we're tired," and moved forward with his pistol raised. Victor panicked immediately.

"You will not fight fair, Brooks? You will use a _gun_ to kill me? Why not a rapier? You were always so good with the blade!"

"Now why would I do that?" Denny asked, casting a quick glance at Henry, who was leaning against what was left of the wall. "After months of gruel and earl grey in prison, why the fuck would I give you an honorable death? I've lost some muscle, see?" He lifted up his shirt and pointed to the flesh hanging of his skinny arm with his gun. "That'll take me months to get back. I'm bloody angry!"

Henry smirked and rolled his eyes, healing the rest of his leg before moving on to his arm. Victor was babbling again. "It was necessary. It wasn't personal," the man nearly shouted, his eyes landing on Henry briefly. "You should set a good example for your son, Brooks."

There was a moment's silence before Denny threw his head back and laughed. Henry couldn't help but laugh as well, and his father turned to share a grin with him at Victor's choice of words. Victor tore the APOC out of his hand and fired.

At Henry.

It hit the lad with enough force that it took him straight into the ground, pushing into his shoulder without mercy. Denny heard a scream that might have been his own; though it could have been Victor's because, the moment that bullet had hit, Denny had reached for Ammon's neck and put all of his weight into wrenching it sideways. The crack as it broke echoed the sound of Henry falling to the floor.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck." Denny tripped over himself to get to the boy, his foot getting tangled with his other foot at one point, and he dropped to his knees beside Henry and turned him over violently.

Denny realized, only then, that there was no ash, that Henry hadn't disintegrated like everyone else. Blood pooled at the boy's damaged shoulder, and his brow was scrunched up in intense concentration. Sweat pooled just underneath that midnight hair, flowing down to his chin and into his ears.

Denny sputtered. "Hey," he gasped. "Hey, you're alright. You're alright, yeah?"

When Henry didn't answer, Denny shook him forcefully, yelling, "Lad! You answer me or I'll fucking kill you!"

"Denny, _shut up!_" Henry howled. "I'm trying to counter the burning."

That sounded pretty important, so Denny bit his lip and said nothing more until Henry opened his bright green eyes and groaned. "What is it? Pick on Henry day?" he murmured.

Denny laughed, patting the boy on the cheek. "Looks like," he joked. "Can you stand?"

When Henry nodded, they managed to get to their feet, though they moved like molasses. "Where's Victor?" Henry asked with a short groan as Denny tied up his shoulder.

"Dead," Denny said shortly, gritting his teeth. "I can't believe that fucker shot you. How did you not get ashed, anyway?"

They hobbled toward another door, one that led to a staircase that, thankfully, looked as though it went up. "I made the bloody guns, remember?" Henry said, hissing as they moved. "I always have a counter to any spell I invent. I think, though, that some of the tissue started crumbling before I could contain the curse."

"Can you move your arm?" Denny queried cautiously. Henry looked up at him as they took the stairs one step at a time.

"Not at the moment," was all that his son said.

They had to go up two more staircases before they reached the piazza, and, when they did, Henry's head was bleeding again and Denny had a limp. The piazza was empty, they noticed, and they gave each other confused looks before they become aware of the black trucks and yellow tape surrounding the Vatican. The Muggles must have heard the ruckus and evacuated Vatican City. Before they were noticed, Henry Apparated them out and back into the alley they had been in earlier.

Taking a moment to catch their breath, Henry and Denny leaned against the wall and breathed in and out slowly. Henry brought out a slightly crushed cigarette and lit it.

"Still at that bad habit, eh?" Denny motioned to the smoke. "I don't know how you do it. Those things are nasty."

"Your face is nasty," Henry retorted smartly.

Choosing to ignore that comment, for the moment, Denny reached into his pockets and set down his gun. He unwrapped a piece of chewing gum and felt his heart calm sufficiently. And then it raced again because the only gun he had was the CON. The modified pistol was missing, likely still in Victor's dead hand.

"Don't be mad at me," Denny said abruptly, and Henry turned to glare at his sheepish look.

"What did you do?"

"I left the APOC in there," he confessed quickly. Rather than bursting into the temper tantrum Denny had predicted, the boy simply scoffed and flashed a hand in the direction of the Vatican.

"_Accio _APOC," Henry incanted nonchalantly. The gun came flying towards them, and Denny caught it before it could hit anything and smiled at his son.

His congratulations on an attack well done were cut short when there was a resounding crash that fizzled out like thunder, and they both turned to look at the Vatican. It gave an almighty shake, making the ground beneath them sway, before it collapsed inwardly into a pile of rubble. A fine powder of dust flew into the air as the place was leveled, and Henry and Denny stood gaping at the wreckage.

"Did you—?"

"Don't bloody look at me!"

"How did that—?"

They turned around and hobbled out of the alley, Denny practically dragging Henry, and they managed to adeptly ignore the screams and cries from behind them. "You hungry, kid?" Denny asked him, and Henry nodded as he took a pained drag from his smoke. "I know a great place around the corner. The best tortellini I've ever had."

"Tortell-what?"

Denny stopped for a moment and smiled at his son. "Sometimes I forget just how young you are, Hen," he said.

"I do too," Henry admitted, "But, then, I just got my ass kicked, so I'll agree to anything right now."

A few people ran past them towards the piazza, where crowds howled their sorrow to the dusky sky for the fallen cathedral. Henry wheezed and didn't look back as, worse for wear but blessedly alive, they walked away from the wreckage.

.o00o.

"…we're going to continue covering this horrible incident," the shocked newscaster was somberly reporting. "For those of you just tuning in, The Vatican has collapsed after an earthquake that took place at around three in the afternoon, Rome time. Luckily, the first initial quake was small enough that the Vatican guards were able to evacuate everyone. The aftershock, not ten minutes later, however, was strong enough to bring the famous landmark down. There have been no injuries as of yet, but priceless artifacts have obviously been damaged beyond repair…."

Frank shook his head at the television, and his lips twitched in an effort not to laugh. He took a sip of his drink before raising the glass in his second toast of the day. "Wonderful, Messieurs Brooks," he said, draining the scotch. "If there's a god, Henry, you've now _successfully_ pissed him off."


	24. Chapter Twenty Three

A/n: Hey all! Thanks so much for the reviews next chapter. A few of you will be getting responses after I update, because I'm engaged for the rest of the night and want to update as soon as possible. This chapter is mostly a plot-pusher, and I would like to inform you all that PW will be thirty chapters exactly, so that means we're nearing the end. It should be finished by September 17th, if nothing crazy happens to keep me from updating. From there I will be taking a break, and will post the sequel and resume the once-a-week updating (every Friday!) on the 22nd of October. If you have any questions or comments, feel free to leave a message here or email me. Enjoy this update, and don't forget to review!

NOTE: By the way, you can all now be super jealous. I'm off to see the Silversun Pickups today! I'll be thinking of you as I enjoy the lovely sounds of one of my favorite bands. Ta!

Dedication: to Amazonia for always calming me down, even when I'm not even talking to her (you're a voice in my head now), and to all of my regular reviewers who leave me such wonderful messages every week! Thank you so much.

Warnings for this chapter: language, waxing philosophical, mentions of violence.

* * *

Pistol Whipped

Chapter Twenty-three

"I wasn't worried," John snapped at them, crossing his arms. "I was mad."

"Mad _with_ _worry_," Denny taunted, and Henry hit him and gave McKay a sincere look of apology, both for making him concerned and for his father's less-than-developed behavior.

He smiled gently. "We're real sorry for not returning right away, John. Real sorry, aren't we, Denny?"

"We brought tortellini," Denny offered gruffly.

"Did someone say tortellini?" Frank, who had gone outside to take a call, piped up, coming back into the room.

"Fuck," Denny cursed. "Now everyone knows."

"We probably should have gotten more," Henry said sadly.

John shoved a spoon full of the delicious pasta in his mouth, and Frank grabbed a plate and scooped a healthy amount for himself. Denny watched them with a scowl on his face.

"Rashidi's on his way over, Henry," Frank said, his mouth full. "He's heard about the excitement and wants to have a chat."

Henry crossed his legs and lit a smoke, flinching a bit when he raised the lighter up to his face. No one except Denny noticed. "Does he?" he asked in interest, eyes flickering to where Denny was sitting up in interest at the mention of Rashidi's name. It didn't surprise Henry at all that his father knew the man.

"And those Feds of yours are out in front of the gates and whining about divine disrespect or something."

Cringing, Henry flexed his still sore shoulder and shook his head. "It wasn't disrespect," he said somewhat defensively.

John laughed at him. "Then what exactly _would _you call it?"

"Remodeling," Denny said casually.

Frank poured himself a drink and sat down. "I can see where Henry gets his maturity from," he snarked teasingly.

"We're witty," Henry told him, getting up and stubbing out his smoke. "I suppose I should go calm the bobbies down."

"Good luck with that," said Frank. "Rashidi will be here in an hour or so. Don't forget to come back."

Henry raised his eyebrows. "How's he getting here so fast?" he queried, sorry he would have to leave Frank to face the fire.

"He's got a wizard on his staff now," Frank clarified.

"Well," Henry scoffed. "That didn't take him long."

When he moved out of the office to go start trouble with the Feds, Denny gave up hording the succulent pasta and settled for glaring at Frank. "So," he began ominously. "What's my son been up to these past few months? I'd _really_ like to know."

Frank swallowed his food, which now tasted like sand, and met Denny's infamous scowl with a nervous grin of his own. How was he going to explain _this_?

.o00o.

"Donnelly," Henry tried to say over the yelling. "_Donnelly_…"

The man was raging at his partner, at Henry, and at Marks intermittently.

"Donnelly!" he finally shouted.

"What!"

"You need to calm the fuck down, mate," he said with a frown and narrowed eyes. "You're annoying the hell out of me."

Monroe looked so relieved when Donnelly seemed to deflate that Henry suddenly admired her courage in the face of his wrath. He could admit, not cruelly, that she wasn't the best FBI agent Henry had ever met, but he held out hope that she would grow out of her irrational fear for Marshall Donnelly. Henry wasn't an expert with women (obviously), but he could say that the women he had met in his life were both strong and intelligent. In his line of work they were often more capable than men, if not meaner. Monroe's submissive complacency beside that lovely, cut-throat bitch, Jana Van Rued's aggressiveness, for instance, only emphasized just how ill-equipped the poor agent was. He gazed at her now, watching her anxious expression, but then he caught sight of the cross around her neck. Whoops.

"You destroyed the Vatican," Donnelly accused, biting the inside of his lip to keep from screaming again.

"You're a presumptuous fellow, aren't you?" he muttered inside the designated truck of foolishness, lighting his second smoke.

Donnelly beamed at him sarcastically. "Not at all, shit head," he cheerfully retorted. "I wouldn't assume if Victor Massimiliano's body hadn't been found beneath the rubble that used to be a holy landmark."

Henry took a drag and glanced at Marks mournfully. "Cops, eh?" he shrugged. Marks raised his eyebrows but smiled anyway, and Henry turned to Donnelly's red face with a resigned air. "If you're looking for a confession, you're going to be disappointed," he said.

"It's disrespect," Monroe spoke up, her voice trembling. "_Divine_ disrespect!"

"Knock the divine shit off!" Donnelly snapped at her. "He's killed hundreds of people and practically blew up a foreign, highly valuable, historical landmark! If they find out you did it, Brooks, we'll have a goddamn religious war on our hands!" He looked as though he wanted to hit Henry, his eyes were bright with exasperation and withheld violence, and Henry smiled provokingly. Donnelly went completely orange.

"That's what you want, isn't it?" Donnelly pointed a finger at him. "A war between religions!"

Henry started to laugh.

"Quit laughing! Is that it, or not?"

Monroe shifted in her seat as Henry gathered himself. "No," she said, chewing on her lip. "He wants a war between his world and ours."

Staring at her, Henry tilted his head to the side and nodded very softly. It was a wonder what this woman could do when she put her mind to it. Henry took a drag as Donnelly advanced on him.

"You're under arrest!" he yelled, waving the cuffs around.

He stopped moving towards Henry when the boy laughed in his face. "You know you can't keep me in jail, Donnelly," he said mockingly.

The agent clenched his jaw hard enough that it popped. "Then I'll expose you," he said. "I'll tell my superiors—"

"And be charged as an abettor?" Henry raised an eyebrow and shook his head. "I thought you valued your life more."

Donnelly shoved a finger into his face. "You can't blackmail me," he hissed.

Henry swatted it away and moved closer. "I'm not," he said, his breath hitting Donnelly's face with the force of his words. "I'm not blackmailing you anymore than you're blackmailing me, _Donny_."

Their Mexican standoff came to an end when Monroe cleared her throat, looking from Henry to Donnelly to Marks, who had a wolfish grin on his face. "Maybe," she said quietly. "If you think about it, Donnelly, what he's doing may not be so bad."

Henry whipped his head around to stare at her. "I thought I was disrespecting the divine, Monroe?" he asked her, dropping his smoke into Donnelly's coffee cup.

"I've thought about it," she stated, twisting her fingers. "And I've only got one question for you. I need an answer, so I can make my decision."

Donnelly scoffed loudly. "It's not like he's giving us any choices here, Monroe!"

They all ignored him, and Henry dipped his head at her considerately. "Go on," he allowed.

She exhaled, and then quickly asked, "Given the chance, would Wizards kill us simply because we're inferior?"

He didn't hesitate. "Yes," he answered, and she flinched. "They've been quiet for a long time. Quiet because persecution isn't possible since they're so well hidden. Some Wizards are tired of hiding, and they have followers. Some Wizards hate your kind and think you're weak, more so than ever before. _They_ would want to wipe you out."

"They'd go after us," Monroe asked for clarification.

"They'd win too, if you lot aren't organized and prepared. They've never instigated a war between the worlds before, but they will. One day."

"And you're organizing and preparing us, is that it?" Donnelly bit out gruffly. "For a war that _you're _starting."

"I'm instigating it, yes," Henry confirmed, and leaned against an empty chair. "Would you rather someone else did? Would you rather it was another Wizard? One that isn't on your side?"

"No," Monroe spoke up before anyone else could. "I guess I don't get why you're doing this, but I know I wouldn't want anyone else to make it happen."

"I know why," Marks said, raising his hand. "Power, isn't it, Brooks? That's what every warmonger wants." When Henry simply stared at him, Marks rushed to say, "No offense."

"Balance," Henry finally answered, his eyes on Monroe now.

She breathed in deeply, and nodded. "Then that's fine," she exhaled. "It's fine, Donnelly."

"Are you kidding me—"

"No," she cut him off, licking her lips. Monroe didn't look at Donnelly as she explained, and Henry met her gaze easily. "He's right. The hiding these Wizards are doing, hating us in secret…it never would have lasted. Someone would have stepped up to start a war, to commit genocide against us. The human race," she laughed shortly and looked at her partner. "Who would have thought we weren't on top?"

No one said anything, and she slouched in her chair and smiled at the floor. "The fact," Monroe continued, "is that Brooks has stepped up. And he wants us to win. He's willing to fight _for_ _us_."

Donnelly's jaw clenched, and he shook his head at the ceiling. Enraged despite her logic, he leaned against the wall of the van heavily and threw his hands up in surrender. Monroe watched his rather churlish display and turned to Henry resignedly. "I'll take care of it," she said.

Henry smiled at her. "I'll never underestimate you again, my dear," he told her.

She blushed wildly, and Henry made his way out of the van. He gave them a two-fingered salute and slid the door shut.

"Nice fucking back up, Monroe," Donnelly yelled at her, and Marks sighed and swiveled his chair around to observe the fight, pushing his glasses up and crossing his hands over his stomach.

"You know I'm right," she said, scowling. "Don't dismiss the obvious logic in his actions. Well," she paused and went a bit red, "besides tearing down the Vatican. I can't understand why he did that."

"He got Massimiliano, didn't he?" Marks grunted. "And he was a top priority criminal in Europe _and _the United States. He kind of did us a favor."

"How can you even trust him?" Donnelly demanded, throwing a hand in the direction of the door. "Do you know how many people will die in this war of his? This…World War III he wants to have?"

Monroe flushed and looked at her hands. "Yes," she acknowledged his words. "But think of the outcome if we win. The advancements in our science, our technology… everything!"

"Don't tell me this is all a mission to combine forces so that we can find a cure for cancer," he snapped, looking positively irate. "Brooks would never think like that. He had knowledge of our technology and our science, as well as all that magic, and what did he do with it? He made _weapons_, Monroe. Weapons that take away odds. Do you think the world will be any different? Do you think we'll get together and help make things _better_ for people? You're naïve. You're naïve, and you're _wrong_."

Though Marks was reluctant to get involved, he cleared his throat and asked Donnelly, "Why do you think he's doing it then?"

"He's got a fucking chip on his shoulder because life hasn't been good to him!" the man nearly shouted. "He wants violence and death and despair because he hates the fact that others had better circumstances than him!"

Monroe made a noise of anger and disbelief. "Oh, _please_," she argued harshly. "Brooks doesn't care what people have. That isn't what this is about. He's looking for something. Something beyond power. He doesn't even want to rule this world he'll conquer. He wants to understand it. He wants to make it right."

"So let me get this straight," Marks interrupted, holding his hands up. "Brooks wants to bring back a moral code. He wants the world to think like he does, right? But the difference between him and every other aggressive, semi-philosophical teenager is that he has the means to _make _us think like him? Is that it, In a nutshell?"

"In a nutshell," Monroe nodded. "I think…" she stopped and blinked. "I also think he wants to know why those bad things happened to him. I think he just wants answers."

Donnelly laughed sardonically, throwing up his hands again. "I can't believe I'm hearing this bullshit," he murmured.

"When did you stop asking why you were here?" she snapped at him. "When did you give in and just accept your lot in life?"

"When I _grew up_," Donnelly told her with a scowl. "You think this is all a question of existence? Don't make me fucking laugh."

"Whether you think so or not," Monroe said, lifting her chin. "Henry Brooks wants to coalesce the two factions and create a power unprecedented in the history of the world. He's putting together what prejudice and fear tore apart, and that combination may just get us somewhere. And guess what, Donnelly?" She smiled at him contemptuously, and whispered, "He's only sixteen, and he's done more than any of us have in our thirty years of living. That must _really_ bother you."

"Damn, Monroe," Marks laughed. "You just went all alpha bitch on us!" She smirked at him as he gestured to Donnelly. "Does make sense, boss."

"You're all bat shit," Donnelly cursed at them. "And I'm going to kill Brooks the next time I see him and finish this bullshit once and for all."

"Speaking of," Marks coughed, looking at Donnelly sheepishly. "Your stand-off with Brooks? Really hot. The sexual tension," he paused to raise his arm, making a slicing motion with it, "could cut it with a knife."

"Jesus Christ."

"Hey!" Monroe objected, slapping Donnelly's shoulder. "That's enough blasphemy for one day, thank you."

.o00o.

Rashidi looked well, and he hadn't brought but five men with him this time as a show of trust, or thoughtlessness. Henry was pretty sure it _wasn't_ the latter. He greeted Henry with a handshake, his black eyes bright with impatience. When he had come into the office, Henry had noticed immediately that Frank, who was seated and flanked by Denny and John, had three guests. Rashidi and his man were seated across from Frank and Choi, who Henry had never met before, sat, with a glower on his face, beside Rashidi.

"It's a pleasure," Henry said to Choi, shaking his hand briskly, after Rashidi had backed away. Choi looked as though he were a cat that had spotted a plump mouse.

"Surely the pleasure is all mine," the man responded, locking his eyes with Henry briefly in respect.

"Please, everyone, sit," Henry said, waving a hand to the chairs. He moved to stand beside Frank and next to his father. "It seems I have some explaining to do," he started.

Choi chuckled. "You brought down the Vatican. It wasn't planned, I take it," he said, his gaze bright. He was a young boss, perhaps five or so years older than Henry, and Henry could see that most of the older men in the room disliked this pretentious youth. In his personal opinion, Choi was a bit refreshing.

"Everything is planned," Henry said vaguely, and held up the decanter of scotch. "Drinks?" he offered.

There was a round of nods, and Henry poured the glasses and passed them around.

"Good drink," Rashidi complimented, smacking his lips.

"So, then, if everything is planned, what has made you accelerate things?" Choi asked, tilting his head curiously. Henry noticed a long arrow shaped tattoo on the side of his cheek then, and he stared at it as Choi spoke.

"Victor Massimiliano," Henry explained, leaning against Frank's chair comfortably.

Choi and Rashidi looked startled. "The lord of the assassins?" Rashidi choked out.

"Know him, do you?" Denny said, sipping at his drink. "We took care of him."

"The guild is gone?" Choi asked, looking rather excited. When Henry dipped his head in an affirmative, Choi grinned. "Wonderful. I hated that bastard. He sent fucking spies over to me. _Spies_. And then when we found out and got rid of them, the bastard tried to _threaten_ me."

"I second his joy on the matter," Rashidi spoke up, hiccupping a bit. "I did not like Massimiliano; though I did get my Wizard from him."

Henry couldn't help but laugh at that news. Denny nudged him and chuckled.

"The question," Frank said, interrupting them, "is who's got Italy now? We don't have anyone out there."

Sobering, Henry nodded and put his glass down. "The rest of Victor's men will flounder, then, perhaps, factions will form, give or take a revolution, and with the country so war-torn, I'll place a Napoleon. Leave it to me."

"Ah, history repeats itself," Rashidi mentioned idly, leaning back.

Henry eyed him for a moment. "Have you had any luck with Rahul?" he asked.

The man grinned, and Frank gave him a suspicious glare. "He is very impressed with your progress so far, especially with the guns," Rashidi said to Henry. "He would like a sample of them—"

"Impossible," Frank cut him off. "And have him duplicate them? I think not."

Henry spoke up before Rashidi could object. "Frank's right. I will, however, distribute the weapons once England has gotten over their little war. Which will be very soon, I should think."

"You wait for lines to be drawn." Rashidi nodded to him with a reverent smile. "Wise of you, young Brooks. I have met your father, and I see where you get your cleverness from."

Scoffing, Henry jutted a thumb at Denny. "_This_ guy?" he asked. "Denny couldn't find his way out of a paper bag."

Denny turned very slowly to stare at him. "I am going to shoot you," he told Henry calmly.

"_Anyway_," Frank said before they could start bantering again. "Plans are going well. We're holding out hope that your men will be armed and trained before the end of England's war."

"A deadline, perhaps?" Choi requested, and it wasn't untoward.

"Two months," Henry said, simply. "A month to end a war, and a month to start one."

Choi lifted his glass. "Cheers," he said with a smile.

Henry tapped the side of his head. "Unfortunately, my friends," he said to the room. "I will be in England, and unable to come to our little meetings, for the next month. If there is an emergency, however, Frank knows how to find me. All correspondence will have to go through Frankie, here."

They both nodded, but Rashidi did so reluctantly. "It is as it is," he growled, finishing his scotch. Frank grinned at him flippantly.

"Good," Henry said, slapping his thighs once before getting to his feet. "All is well, then. Soon you and your men will be a part of the most powerful force in the world. Quite an accomplishment, gentlemen!"

"And, you, Mr. Brooks," Choi congratulated him with a raised glass. "I'm sure you'll like being the man who started it all."

Glaring at Choi, Denny grunted, "How is ruining his reputation a good thing?"

"I don't give a damn about my bad reputation," Henry sang, and at their blank looks he continued, "Living in the past, it's a new generation. A girl can do what she wants to do, and that's what I'm gonna do." When they continued to stare, Henry asked, "Joan Jett?"

Denny shook his head at Henry.

"Never mind."

.o00o.

Henry had to make one more stop before he went back to school. Having left Denny in Frank's capable hands, he wasn't worried that his father would get into any mischief without him. The pain in his arm seemed to have multiplied in the last hour, and he rubbed it carefully as he moved towards Gringotts. From what he could tell, the alley was nearly out of business due to the Dark Lord's now frequent attacks. All that seemed to be open was Ollivander's Wand Shop and the bank that had once kept Diagon alive.

Henry was escorted down to Ten's lair immediately, since he had sent a missive to Griphook prior to his arrival so as to not offend the touchy creature. The cart ride jostled his shoulder quite a bit. He scrunched his face up in pain until the awful journey was over and he could relax his tense arm. He was hoping Griphook would have an idea as to how Henry could heal the disintegrated muscle, since he wasn't very knowledgeable in that arena. Fixing his own curses? Sure. Healing minor scrapes and bruises and, sometimes even, broken bones? No problem. Creating muscle and stitching together an internal injury that could very likely be beyond repair? No dice.

Griphook was having a one-sided vocal conversation with Ten and Bo when he arrived, and Henry breathed a sigh of relief that they were all there.

"Human father!" Bo called to him, heading over on slightly unstable wings to nuzzle him gently. It wasn't gentle enough, though, because Henry hissed as his shoulder was wrenched sideways. "Are you hurt?" Bo asked, alarmed. "What happened? Why are you hurt?"

Henry moved Bo's curious snout away with a small (if not agonized) smile. "Got into a spot of trouble, my dear," he explained. Griphook and Tenebres turned to look at him, and he motioned to his arm. "I got shot with my own gun."

Bo was laughing, Henry could tell. There was no mistaking honest dragon amusement, what with the hissing mouth and stomping feet. Henry gave him a half-hearted glare.

"With a modified weapon?" Griphook said, moving to him with a curious frown. "And you didn't turn to ash?"

"I know the counter," Henry told him, pulling his shirt off so Griphook could see the inflamed skin. "I couldn't stop it in time, though, and it ate through some tissue before I could reverse its effects."

Griphook's gnarled hands kneaded the area roughly and Henry flinched. "It pains you still, I see," he murmured. "How well can you move your arm?"

Henry stretched it out and stopped about half-way, perpendicular to his chest. Griphook grabbed his hand and shoved it all the way up, and Henry cried out. "The muscle is severely damaged," the goblin said, unaffected when the boy tore his arm away and hissed at him. "It will heal itself, with time, but if the damage is too much, it will never be the same again. I suggest you go to a healer."

"And how the hell would I explain _that_?" Henry asked viciously.

Griphook pointed at him rudely. "Memory charm, _Wizard_," he said. "I know you're not stupid. Don't act as though you are."

"I've got too much to do."

Ten shuffled and a puff of smoke blew out of his mouth and nose. "You're being stubborn," he accused Henry.

Clearing his throat, he put his shirt back on and pursed his lips. "It will heal," he said, waving a hand. "So, how goes things, Griphook?" he asked, nodding at the object now in Griphook's hands.

The goblin eyed him shrewdly before nodding. "The best goblin metal was used; all it needs is the transferred fragments. I assume you know how to move them into the container?"

Henry gave him a look, and Griphook grinned mockingly. "Universal passageways are my thing, you know," Henry said, taking the container. "So it's ready to use?"

Bo came over to inspect the object in Henry's hand, and he hastily shoved it in his pocket before the dragon could suspect it was something delicious. He ran a hand down Bo's flank for a moment, cherishing the warm scales and the deep rumble coming from the dragon's chest.

"No," Griphook snapped, quite annoyed with him, apparently. "It is most certainly not ready. We're missing the main ingredient, _Wizard_. Did you think a measly explosion would dispose of dark magic such as this?"

Tenebres, looking at Griphook, said to Henry, "He's very upset about the state of the Wizarding world. You have done little but irritate him, Dragon Speaker."

"What state?" Henry asked, watching as Griphook grinded his sharp teeth at being interrupted. "I mean, besides the war. What's happened?"

"The Ministry arrived yesterday to give the gold dealers an ultimatum," Ten extrapolated. "They will either side with the Ministry in the war against the Dark Lord, or they will be forced to leave the bank."

"_What_?" Henry gaped, turning to look at Griphook for confirmation.

The goblin lifted his chin. "I suppose the Dragon King has told you of our predicament? We have chosen the side of the Ministry, like we always have, because we belong to the Ministry, Henry Brooks. Though we would choose the Ministry regardless, they insulted us by letting us think we had the agency to make that choice. Do you see, now, why I dislike your kind?"

Henry wasn't quite sure what to say, and even Bo seemed to have gone pensively silent. He finally swallowed and looked away from Griphook's accusatory glare. "What do you mean you belong to them?" he questioned, looking concerned.

Griphook smiled deprecatingly. "There is no where else in the world that goblins can live in peace. No other Ministry will accept us. Not after the Goblin Wars. We are slaves, and though some of my kind denies that claim, it is so. It is my hope, and the hope of many of my kind who believe in divination, that our slavery shall end with the coming of a new age."

Henry placed a hand at his temple and sighed. "That's cryptic as hell," he said to Griphook. "You'd put your freedom on _my_ shoulders?"

Tenebres was the one who was offended now. "Why should we not?" the dragon queried. "I had thought you would bring a new order with you. Have Griphook and I, thus far, been wishing on false dreams?"

Henry didn't know what to do. He opened and closed his mouth over and over until he coughed a bit and shook his head. "How can you make me responsible—"

"_Responsibility_, Henry Brooks," Griphook said to him, cold and callous as if they had never met before, "is something you will understand all too soon, I trust. You must learn to face the price of your war, and if I know you as I do, I can predict that you will not understand until it's too late."

Bo nudged him. "Human father," he said to get his attention. "The gold dealers only want what's best for their kind. So does dragon father. Don't be cross with them."

"I'm not cross!" he snapped, and felt bad when Bo looked hurt. "I'm not," he repeated, looking at Ten and Griphook arrogantly. "I just… shouldn't you lot be a little bit more agreeable, considering I'm your chosen _savior_?"

Ten scoffed at him and turned his back, his long tail whipping to the side. Griphook merely grinned in that unsettling way of his and didn't look at all surprised at Henry's reaction. "You're quite right, _Wizard_," he said, bowing. "Our apologies for the disrespect."

"No," Henry said quickly. "No, don't do that. Just…don't, okay? I'm sorry. Ten, I'm sorry. Griphook, I really am sorry. Bo…you okay?"

"Well, I'm fine," Bo informed him with a huff. "I think you should go to the human healer person, though. You're not acting like yourself."

Griphook smirked at him. "He dueled and was bested," the goblin enlightened the rest of them. Henry rolled his eyes, not at all shocked that the creature would know what had happened. "He was bested," Griphook went on, "and it won't be the last time."

"Fucking _whatever_," Henry said, shaking his head angrily. He waved an errant hand and made for the carts. "I'll be in touch."

"Remember to get the ingredient!" Griphook yelled after him over Bo whining that he should stay. "I'd suggest Basilisk venom!"

As Henry walked towards the uncomfortable transport, he growled to himself, _and where the fuck am I going to find Basilisk venom? Jesus! _He wasn't sure why he was in such a horrible mood, but he could only hope that nothing worse than irritated goblins met him at Hogwarts. And that's when he remembered that he had left without telling Dumbledore.

_Fuck. _

.o00o.

Professor Snape was lurking about the entrance to Harry's rooms when Harry strolled into the corridor. He looked a right mess, his hair was unwashed and slightly greasier than usual, his face pale and drawn. When he caught sight of Harry, however, the anxious expression he had previously sported dissolved into one full of righteous anger. A red flush developed across Snape's cheeks and nose as Harry got closer, and, if Harry wasn't in such a bad mood, he might have thought it amusing.

"Severus," he greeted the man meekly.

"_You are_—" the man suddenly stopped, closing his eyes and speaking through clenched teeth. "You are an _absolute_ _imbecile_, Potter. Without even a sliver of doubt, I do believe that there cannot be a modicum of common sense in your head." He leaned forward, his stare bright with derision. "If, perhaps, some unknown deity had managed to grace your mind with a shred of intelligence at your loathsome birth, I assume it has been beaten to death by either your relatives or the criminals you flocked with while living as a destitute hobo, who, without provocation, remains proud of his own wastefulness as a human being."

Harry gawked at Snape as the man gained his bearings, staring back at Harry with a hell of a lot more ridicule than Harry could ever master in one glare. "I—" Harry cleared his throat. "I'm pretty sure that's the most insulting thing anyone has ever said to me."

"Do I win a prize?" Snape snarked, crossing his arms.

"Did you practice that in front of a mirror until you got it right? The tone and everything?" he asked.

"I'm of the opinion," the professor said coldly, "that I hate you much more than I hated your father, and I _despised_ him with every bone in my body."

Harry moved forward and slapped Snape on the back. "Well, then, that is a problem," he said, making for the entrance to his rooms. "Once I can actually do that, I'll be sure to raise my dead father and tell him how very naughty he's been. Maybe I'll even ground him. Get it? Ground him? Raising the dead from the ground…_never mind_."

Snape swung him around forcefully, slamming him against the portrait in one awkward but fierce movement. The portrait was rather upset about such manhandling, but one terrible snarl from Snape made the words die in the portrait's mouth.

"Dumbledore _knows_, Potter," Snape said, so ridiculously close that, if not for the news he had blurted out so intensely and the pain in his shoulder, Harry would have been hard and smirking.

"Knows what?" he snapped.

"He knows that you're working for the Dark Lord!" the man whispered heatedly.

Harry locked his jaw, feeling his temple twitch, and pulled away from the potions master. He directed Snape to his rooms, opening the portrait quickly.

"In, then."

Snape followed him into the room, and Harry divested his coat and gun on the table. He reached for the closest bottle.

"Wine?" he offered stiffly.

"No scotch? I was under the impression you were partial to it," Snape said, not even bothering to act like the comment was made to be friendly. The professor sat down heavily, watching Harry's every move.

"Perhaps something more soothing," he said at large. "Scotch is for dire circumstances."

Snape took the glass rather thankfully, with a small look in his gaze that informed Harry how much Snape felt he needed the alcohol. "You don't think this circumstance is dire, Potter?"

Harry sat across from him, waving his hand and lighting the fireplace before taking out a cigarette. "No," he said without any trace of alarm, pausing a moment to light the smoke. "Dumbledore was bound to find out sooner or later."

When he spoke, smoke billowed out of his mouth and nose, and Snape was forcibly reminded of a dragon.

"He has been waiting for you to return, to interrogate you," Snape confessed, taking a sip of his breathing wine. "You left without notice, then, suddenly, a Muggle landmark is destroyed and the Dark Lord is attacking London."

"Did he really?" Harry asked nonchalantly.

"You mean to tell me that you weren't there? That you didn't know about it?"

Harry lifted a shoulder. "I am a victim of coincidence, apparently," he said, drinking his own wine. "Does he know, or does he have his suspicions?"

"He knows," Snape said sharply. "He has been suspicious for awhile."

"And with the prophecy, I can expect no Aurors in his office once I visit him?" He sat back and waited for the professor's nod.

"He will try to collar you."

Harry took a deep breath and agreed. "He will _try_," he said, taking a drag. "But I've a plan."

"Do you?" the man muttered sardonically. "How impressive."

"Despite what you may think, this is not a disadvantage. None of my plans have been handicapped. They've just been pushed up a bit," he explained.

Snape relaxed a little in his seat, not out of any sort of trust in his present company, but simply because he was too tired to be a paranoid bastard at the moment. Harry smiled at him.

"Just as killing Massimiliano was?" Snape asked, and grimaced when Harry blew a cloud of smoke in his direction as an affirmative. "I hope you have a grand story to get you out of this conundrum."

"That I do!" Harry told him cheerfully. "And if he doesn't believe me we will not know it. He will wait for the opportune moment to collar me. But it won't be now, not when he needs me to fulfill a prophecy I intend to simply ignore."

Snape shifted in his seat and watched as Harry threw a leg over the other and reclined quite beautifully. "And will you go to the Dark Lord once Dumbledore is dead?" he asked, and the question sounded as though it was one he had withheld from asking for a long time.

"Of course," Harry allowed, leaning forward a bit. "Dumbledore is a good man," he said rather suddenly.

"I never wanted to kill him," said Snape, softly.

"And now you won't have to."

"I may as well have," he snapped, draining his glass and slamming it on the sofa table with more force than necessary. "Consorting with you, Potter, his would-be murderer…I may as well have."

"Rest your conscience," Harry smirked. "I'm under the impression you were blackmailed into the dirty deed."

"I'm beginning to think death would be the more practical choice," Snape sighed, uncharacteristically running a hand down his face.

Harry lifted a shoulder. "Possibly," he admitted, stubbing his smoke out and sitting back once more. "He's a good man," he repeated, "but manipulative and rather blinded by what he thinks are actions for the good of the world."

"One would usually find that apt in a leader," Snape jeered.

"I find it artful," Harry said, rising and refilling their drinks. "But those he wishes to deceive are better at the game than he is. And he knows it. Dumbledore is aware of his age." Harry handed Snape his glass and retained his previous position. "He's aware that he will die, by either the curse or your hand. Both are painful. If he knows the vow has changed, then all I will have to do is reassure him that the world will be in good hands once he's gone. That his death won't be for nothing."

Snape was silent for awhile, looking down at his wine as if it fascinated him, then his back straightened, and a line appeared between his dark eyebrows. "And is the world in good hands once he passes?"

Harry quietly mocked his query for a few long moments. "You know it is," he gently, finally said. "I don't only want to hurt."

"It's an age-old philosophy, true, but underneath thin skin is a constant hunger for power," Snape growled. "That is no reassurance, and if it is not enough for me, then it certainly won't be enough for Dumbledore."

"He won't know all of that, professor," Harry reminded him. "He will know what I want him to know. And I have no wish to control the world at all."

"Then what is it you want?" Snape asked, his voice raising a pitch with frustration.

Harry took a drink and lit another cigarette, much to Snape's disgust. "I find it exasperating," Harry began, drawing out his words, "that so many are very concerned with my reasons for doing this, more concerned, oddly enough, than about the chaos I'm promising to cause."

Snape scowled. "It's a matter of selfishness," he sniffed. "You cannot expect people to accept your actions without suspecting some sort of underlining, self-seeking motive."

"And if I say this new war has very little to do with me and what I want?"

"You would be a liar," Snape told him, his face pinched unattractively. "And a bad one, at that. I am finding it hard to not laugh at you, Potter."

"By all means," Harry said, waving a hand as if to grant permission. "Do you ever wonder, though, professor, what would have happened had I gone to this school at the innocent age of eleven?"

"Had you not become an overly ambitious, completely insane criminal, you mean?" Snape inquired, raising an eyebrow. Harry smiled and nodded as the man rose, having had enough of their conversation, apparently.

"You would be more like your intolerable father," he said to the waiting boy. "And less like your mother."

Harry got up as well to show him out. "Am I like her?"

Snape had such a startled look on his face that it made Harry feel as though the man had forgotten they were dead, and that nostalgia had skewed the present with the past. Gathering himself, the Potion's professor looked at Harry carefully.

"Yes," he sneered tiredly, pausing at the portrait opening. "You are very much like her."

Something warm and alien passed through Harry, then, and he wasn't quite sure what it was, but it felt strange and uninvited. Snape seemed to have more to say, though, and Harry waited tolerantly until the man met his eyes.

"You're very much like her," Snape repeated, and then added, "when she was at her very worst."

The man skulked out and slammed the portrait closed. Harry teetered there for a moment, the half-full glass of wine in one hand and the cigarette in the other, before he finally sighed to himself and retreated from the entranceway. He drained the cup and put out his smoke before he turned down the lights in his room and grabbed his coat and gun. He looked into the mirror and made sure he didn't appear as tired as he felt. It was time to fool a man he respected no matter how much he disrespected him. It was time to convince Dumbledore that the road to hell wasn't always paved with good intentions.

But Harry didn't plan on hell, and so hell would not happen.

Not to him.


	25. Chapter Twenty Four

A/n: Things are going so according to plan it's almost boring. Lots of build-up here. Lots of foreshadowing. Interesting character development as well. A cut-out sex scene because I didn't write one and there's a lot of it in the sequel. Really, I couldn't believe how much sex I put in that one. Crazy. Anyway, next week you'll get two chapters, but twenty five is a bit of an intermission chapter. I suggest you read it, but then again, you don't have to. It's your call peep monsters. Alright, I'm done babbling.

Oh, and the Silversun Pickups were absolutely amazing;y awesome. I highly recommend that you guys see them live. They're definitely in my top five for best concerts, and I've seen _a lot _of good bands.

**Review responses after update** again. I hate being crazy busy. Also, I don't know if RL issues next week will stop me from updating, but if they do, check out my profile and I'll have a note there about it. I'll try my hardest to get the next chapters out to you, but as a warning-just know it's going to be a challenge for me. Thanks for reviewing, guys!

Dedication: to Amazonia's fallen family members. They're chilling in heaven now, drinking margaritas and throwing dice. I'm deeply sorry for her loss. Good people like her don't deserve to lose anything. I love you, darling, hang in there.

Warnings for this chapter: a frustrating lack of slash, bullshitting, ambiguous morality, and language. Per usual.

* * *

Pistol Whipped

Chapter Twenty Four

"Harry, my boy!" Dumbledore greeted him quite jovially. "Come and sit, come and sit," he said, gesturing to the closest chair.

Shutting the door behind him, Harry gave the man a gentle smile before seating himself casually, though deferentially, on a chair across from Dumbledore. He crossed his legs and folded his hands into his lap as Dumbledore sat back down with a few soft sighs, divulging his age and lack of health. The old man's smile was perfectly normal, as if nothing could and would bother him, and Harry admired Dumbledore for it. They stared at each other briefly.

"Tea?" the headmaster offered.

"Yes, please," Harry said, dipping his head and watching Dumbledore summon the teapot and dishes with little to-do. Wrinkled fingers that, despite their age, still looked strong and nimble held out the saucer to him, and Harry took it gladly and leaned back once more. "Thank you."

He took a slow sip and immediately sensed a hint of Veritiserum. Harry hummed in the back of his throat before placing his cup down on the edge of Dumbledore's desk, eyeing the old man's own tea for a moment. He would bet his bollocks that there was Felix Felicis in Dumbledore's cup. Though a single drop of Veritiserum wouldn't make Harry a zombie to honesty, it was certainly enough to make his tongue loose, and he knew Dumbledore was counting on that. Counting on Harry slipping up in some small way.

But Veritiserum was a lot like alcohol, and Harry could drink anyone into the floor any day. His self-control was infamous, and no measly drop of a truth-telling concoction could waver that. He cleared his throat and easily wiped away the fog that had started to creep into his mind. _Nice try, sir_, he thought rather viciously.

"I am curious, Harry," Dumbledore began after it looked as though they were settled, "about where you have been for the past two days? I was quite worried!"

"I _am_ reallysorry, headmaster," Harry told him apologetically. "I…" he stopped and sighed. "I had a bit of a tiff with Victor Massimiliano."

"Did you?" Dumbledore acknowledged his explanation congenially. One gray eyebrow accompanied the lines on his forehead as he observed Harry closely over his half-moon glasses. "I confess I've heard of his recent demise."

Harry wasn't surprised that he had. "I didn't mean to kill him," he defended himself, shaking his head and frowning. "He went after a friend of mine, and that didn't go over well with me, to be honest." Harry looked down at his lap and spoke to it. "I admit I wasn't keen on the man before then. Victor's dealings were usually…unsavory."

"That they were," Dumbledore nodded. "I would have wished for a less violent retaliation, my boy, but I _am_ happy evil men like Mr. Massimiliano still receive their comeuppance."

Adjusting his posture, Harry tilted his head to the side in agreement. "It was an emergency, my leaving, I mean, sir," Harry explained. "John was being attacked. Victor was after him and his family, you see."

"Ah, I do see," the headmaster said, licking his lips and lacing his fingers together. "Would you, in my position, think it a coincidence that your departure would happen exactly the day the Dark Lord chose to attack Muggle London?"

Harry stopped his teacup half-way to his mouth and exhaled forcefully. He set it down once more, and straightened. "In your position," he began with caution, "I would think it too good of a coincidence, sir."

Dumbledore inclined his head. "Then perhaps we can be frank with each other, Harry," he said, appearing for all the world as if he weren't about to accuse his favorite prophecy child of being a turn-coat. His confidence did not throw Harry off, however; rather, he felt the need to rise to the challenge the headmaster was presenting: _Will you lie to my face when I know the truth?  
_

"Are you working for the Dark Lord?"

Harry's jaw twitched, and he bit his bottom lip harshly before saying, simply, "Yes."

With a very concerned frown, Dumbledore's expression told him to extrapolate, and so he did. "But not in the way you would think," Harry said quickly. "You just have to let me explain."

"I will reserve the hostility I normally demonstrate when dealing with Death Eaters," the man allowed, waving a hand. "Please, go on."

Harry fidgeted, glancing up at Dumbledore through his eyelashes. "Do you remember when the Dark Lord attacked the Ministry? That night, in the Department…" He stopped and shook himself admonishingly. "Of course you do."

He ran his palms down his thighs, the rough denim catching the lines in his hands and causing a warm, slightly nerve-wracking friction. "I had a charm placed on the Weasleys," he said to his legs. "A modified tracking charm that works much like a magical clock. Mrs. Weasley has one."

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows in interest. "You converted this charm yourself?" he asked inquisitively.

Nodding slightly, Harry licked his lips and watched as the headmaster sat back and smiled softly.

"Your mother was excellent at charms," was all he said on the matter, and Harry took that as a motion to proceed.

"You've got to understand, sir," he continued pleadingly. "The Weasleys…they're my family. My first family. I would do anything for them."

"Which was why you went after them. Why you saved Arthur and then young Ginny and Ron."

Harry closed his eyes briefly before opening them again with an audible swallow. "I needed to help them. I didn't know much about the Wizarding World then, only that I was a Wizard and an orphan, and that I could trust Molly and Arthur with anything. The Dark Lord was just suddenly—" he paused to clear his throat. "He was just _there_, and I wanted to know why he was attacking my family. I hated him for it."

For the first time since they had sat down to have their chat, of sorts, Dumbledore's expression softened into both understanding and sympathy. "That I can understand, my boy," he murmured.

"He wanted to make a deal with me. He said he wouldn't hurt any of the Weasleys if I worked for him. I didn't understand who I was until that day, when he propositioned me, sir. Until then, I was only Henry Brooks." He took a breath and grimaced. "The Dark Lord knew me as someone else. He knew what my working for him would mean. I know that now, and I know how _stupid_ I was. What's worse, I know now what he is capable of. What kind of…creature he is."

Harry's hands shook, and he gave up trying to sit up straight and appear the part of a sad boy trying for faux perseverance. "I only wanted to protect them," he whispered. "The things he's done…the things he's made me do—" He stopped and exhaled, looking up at Dumbledore beseechingly. "I just wanted them safe."

Dumbledore glanced out the window, and his mouth became a firm, straight line. "Do you bear the Dark Mark?" he queried quietly.

Harry shook his head vehemently. "No," he said. "That's what made me suspect that the Dark Lord only wanted me close so that he could, well—" Harry halted and made a gesture as if to say it was obvious what the Dark Lord intended to do. "And then, after I was gone, he would probably kill my family to spite me."

"Did he ask you to spy here, at Hogwarts?" Dumbledore asked, sternly this time.

"No," he confessed, looking awkward. "He never marked me; he never treated me like one of his Death Eaters. He didn't even ask me to spy here."

Dumbledore evidently understood Harry's position. He nodded in that kindly way of his, to apologize for Harry's misfortune in the form of being fooled by a very powerful dark wizard, or to show compassion in the face of the boy's supposed stupidity. Dumbledore knew that Voldemort kept Harry close to kill him later, or to possibly enslave him, and the boy was aware of it and frightened. But why hadn't he gone to him, Albus Dumbledore, for the help he so readily needed?

It came down to distrust and fear, two feelings Dumbledore was intimately familiar with. Another thought struck him, then, one more horrible than a boy's downfall and an old man's mistakes.

"I must ask you this, Harry," he said intensely, leaning forward. "Does he know of the Horcruxes? Does he know of the one inside you?"

"No!" Harry objected immediately and so forcefully Dumbledore sat back. "No. I made sure he didn't. He would lock me away in that manor of his, and I would be helpless. Helpless. He doesn't know we're after the pieces. I made sure, sir."

The headmaster was silent for a time after Harry's outburst. He played with the edge of a parchment on his desk, listening to the night sounds outside the open window and the small snoring chirps Fawkes made on his perch. Shadows from the comfortable fireplace danced up his gnarled hands, one a pale white, the other black with death. Things came into perspective, then, and he stared at the boy across from him. _So young_, Dumbledore thought to himself, and in that moment, despite how wise Harry acted and how grown-up he thought he was, Dumbledore saw that the lad was just a child in a too-big chair atop a too-big world. He was a _child.  
_

"Harry," he said softly, disturbing the stale silence. The boy's head shot up. "You know that, for his defeat, you will have to die."

It was Harry's turn to have a quiet moment, and Dumbledore let him. When the boy met his stare, it was one of resignation and courage. "He's mad," Harry told him. "He's killed so many, and he plans to kill more. I hate him for making me kill, too. He made me _kill. _I couldn't live with myself, anyway, if he remained immortal." He looked away and nodded, seemingly to himself. "And the prophecy, sir, it won't just disappear. It says I'm to be the one to do it…and I will."

Harry stared at his lap and his shoulders visibly slumped. "Besides," he muttered jokingly, masking a small sob. "I would want for death after all that I've done."

"You shouldn't," Dumbledore admonished him. "I knew a man once who thought much as you do. Who made many of the same mistakes. I would take the burden from this man, but our fates are tangled, and we must all do as we must."

"Severus," Harry breathed, and then choked a bit. "You're talking about the Vow. He's supposed to kill you, and you're going to let him."

"I'm afraid it has to be done," Dumbledore told him pensively. "The Unbreakable Vow would have two men dead rather than one. Severus has too good of a soul to carry this burden, but I would have him live no matter the consequences."

Frowning, seeming desperate and disturbed, Harry met Dumbledore's eyes intensely. "But..." He unclenched his teeth. "The world _needs_ you. If you die—" Harry choked there, again. "Who will they look to for _hope_, sir?"

Dumbledore rose, and Harry watched his movements with wide green eyes. Surprisingly, the old man knelt beside Harry's chair and looked up at him with a nakedness that was altogether breathtaking. The headmaster reached up and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "_You_, Harry. They'll look to you. And you must continue the search without me—"

"I can't!" Harry balked, but Dumbledore grasped him with an alarming amount of strength and shook him by the shoulders.

"_You can_," the old man said firmly, his blue stare bright with surety. "No matter your mistakes, you _must_ realize that the love you have for your family is a power strong enough in itself. Because of your unconditional devotion to those pure of heart, I _know_ you will succeed."

Harry bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut. He opened them again when Dumbledore's grip tightened. "I've done terrible things," he whispered painfully.

"All good men have," the headmaster assured him. "But you still love. You regret them. I could not have asked for a better warrior, my boy."

He swallowed. "I'll try."

"No!" He shook Harry again. "You will prevail. You must promise me. You must promise that my death will not add to the weight on your shoulders. It is only the next great adventure, after all." Dumbledore smiled then. "Promise a hope for a dying, old man, Harry."

Those beautifully colored eyes settled on the headmaster so seriously, so steadily, and his lovely, young face was consumed with grief and sorrow. But, finally, after a long study, Harry fixed his expression into one of determination and confidence. Dumbledore enjoyed the sight.

"I do so swear to carry out the task of defeating the Dark Lord, of not mourning Albus Dumbledore but simply remembering him, and, from this point onward, of giving hope to the people, and of handing them their deliverance," he said, the last bit of his promise becoming soft and stuttering.

With a snap, the vow fell into place, and Dumbledore looked at him sharply, his eyes wide with shock. "Harry! Why—"

"If I die," Harry interrupted him, "it will be after this vow is honored, sir."

"And you _shall_ die if it is not!" Dumbledore spoke forcefully, his voice trembling. "You did not need to bind yourself to the cause so permanently, my boy."

Harry lifted one shoulder. "It's what you did, isn't it? Besides, I've made my promise. I admit it was done for redemption, but I also did it for you and my family, sir. I know they won't ever be safe if the Dark Lord lives," he explained quietly.

Dumbledore abruptly dragged him forward into a hug. "I have failed you for more than what should be forgiven, Harry," he said into the boy's neck.

Hesitating for a moment, Harry finally returned the affectionate touch and grasped the old man tightly. "You haven't," he objected, drawing back to stare at his elder. "I've been loved. I've been healthy and happy. I don't blame you, sir." He smiled at the headmaster, mimicking the gentle curve of lips that Dumbledore used so often on so many.

Dumbledore chuckled warmly, grinning back as best as he could. "You will take care of Severus?" he asked, changing the subject rather randomly.

Harry laughed, coughing a little. "I'm sure he can take care of himself," he chortled. Before Dumbledore could ask him to explain his reasoning, he said, "Severus is distraught over his task. I will help him as best as I can afterward."

"I'm sorry this task is his to bear," Dumbledore said regretfully as, with Harry's help, he rose to his feet. "I'm afraid I must apologize to you again, Harry," he began when he was put back in his chair.

Harry, who had been making sure that Dumbledore wouldn't topple over, frowned. "For what, sir?" he asked.

"For a great many things," he sighed, appearing very much his age. The fire, as invigorating as it made anything look, only served to cast a terrible weakness to Dumbledore's face and eyes. "But first, there is an heirloom that should have been given to you long ago."

He rustled through a drawer in his desk before humming in triumph and unraveling a long silvery cloak from the hidden cubby. "This belonged to your father, James," Dumbledore told him, handing it over. Harry took it a bit reverently. "It is an Invisibility Cloak, my boy, and, though your father used its powers primarily for mischief, I do hope you will employ this gift for more important endeavors."

Clasping the cloak to his chest, Harry observed it with ill-disguised awe before he looked up at Dumbledore gratefully. "Thank you, sir. I'll use it well," he promised.

Dumbledore smiled. "You must forgive me, Harry, for placing you with the Dursley family," he said gently, looking away. "I thought that blood, that family, would mean Petunia would care for you as her own. She did not, and for that I am endlessly sorry and will remain impugned."

"You couldn't have known," Harry retorted swiftly. "You're not to blame, sir," he repeated.

"Yes, well," Dumbledore hesitated, seemingly sinking into himself. "I placed you with people who hurt you, who left you." He met Harry's eyes. "I am not so arrogant to accept the fault entirely, but my actions were wrong, all the same."

Harry dipped his head reluctantly. "Then you're forgiven for a folly that isn't yours."

That tender, slightly moist smile returned. "Thank you, Harry. I also must apologize for my suspicions. I have treated you with a distrust that has only served to beget more distrust."

Rolling his eyes to the side, as if put-upon, Harry huffed and shoved his hair out of his face. "Not at all," he grunted. "If you apologize for that, then I must apologize for not telling you I was working for him, however unwillingly." He shrugged in his seat. "I thought that, if you didn't know, you wouldn't think ill of me."

"I could never think ill of you, Harry," Dumbledore admitted, looking cross at Harry for thinking such a thing. "Though if 'suspicion' is considered 'thinking ill' then I suppose I have. I am sorry for that."

"And I'm sorry for my dishonestly," Harry pushed, trying to remain stoic. He couldn't hold a straight face for too long, and he laughed and grinned. "I'll cover it all, then, shall I? You're forgiven for being human."

Dumbledore returned his laugh, and Harry watched the old face wrinkle in a way that was impossibly endearing. He looked at Dumbledore closely. He saw. He wanted to start laughing again.

"We're quite a pair, aren't we?" Harry asked, smiling.

The headmaster raised his chin and popped a candy into his mouth. "That we are, my boy. But we are a good pair, I think."

.o00o.

Draco Malfoy was angry. He had been in a constant state of ire since the beginning of his sixth year, and it seemed he would end it just as he had started it, as helpless and frustrated as ever. When Draco's task was taken away from him, he felt like he was on very thin ice with the Dark Lord, and the prospect of his imminent death had changed him irrevocably. The locket weighed heavily in his pocket, wrapped in the cloth Potter had given it to him in, secreting a terrible magic that only seemed to make Draco's pent up anxiety worse. The entire situation with Potter made him bristle like a cat, and, despite any _relations_ between them, Draco found his resentment towards Potter as strong as ever. And his lust hadn't waned either.

Perhaps Potter's best talent was getting underneath the skin of the unlucky sods he desired. He had certainly (considering the man had yet to kill him) made headway with the interminably straight Severus Snape, and Dumbledore himself appeared out of sorts when Potter chose to leave without notice. That was two days ago, now, and Draco hadn't seen hide nor hair of Potter since. Even the Weasleys, who Potter was often found with, were blatantly worried for the boy's whereabouts; though, oddly enough, they were also accepting of his absence. Their strange temperament in regards to Potter only served to infuriate Draco more.

What did they know that _he _didn't?

He thought that maybe the difference lay in what exactly they wanted Potter for. The Weasleys took to Potter like family, in a nonchalantly passive way that told everyone they respected, cherished, and thought him capable of handling himself. Draco didn't trust that, didn't trust Potter at all, because, despite what Potter thought, he was human. And all humans made mistakes.

Draco had always been a perfect Slytherin. His father had raised him to be that way, and he was proud to play the game and play it well. But Potter was better.

Lucius had warned Draco, once, of those who could play their hand with an ease Draco would admire. Those who were "Untouchables," as Lucius called them, should not be trifled with, only observed, as a student would learn from a teacher, and respected, as a follower would revere a leader. The Dark Lord was one of those players who Lucius had described as near invulnerable. Dumbledore, though with only respect and not admiration, was an Untouchable, and Draco, who had been well versed in these types of unassailable sovereigns, was quickly realizing that Potter fell in the reputable caste of the aforementioned men. Potter was a lead player, one that Lucius had warned his son about time and time again.

Perhaps Potter would even have the audacity to be the greatest of them all.

It made Draco Malfoy furious, and sadly, quite frightened. Such a person surviving the Dark Lord's game with their own, Lucius had said, would have to be disposed of. If one came to light, however unlikely it was that one should emerge, Wizards should prepare to either destroy or follow the mythical conqueror. It was the main reason for Draco's task to kill Albus Dumbledore; an infamous Untouchable, he was the last mainstay against the Dark Lord. Potter was a different matter entirely because Draco couldn't place his game. He was the Dark Lord's man, he was Dumbledore's man, he was his own man, and Draco was confused and angry.

There was only one thing for it, Draco came to the conclusion. Potter underestimated him, as rational as it was foolish, and Draco would have to step up and show his meddle to the ambitious young man. He would have to play the game better, not for the Dark Lord, who trusted the wrong people, not for his father, who followed so pathetically, and, most importantly, not to impress a person like Potter, who was perpetually unmoved by everyone. No, Draco was rather talented at being selfish, and it was about time he exercised his expertise.

Which was why, when Draco heard through the Hogwarts' grape-vine that Potter was back and currently with Dumbledore, he had gone to wait outside of the rooms Potter had been given when he had arrived at the school. _Such privileges for the esteemed boy-who-lived_, Draco thought with a roll of his eyes.

Draco wasn't daft enough to ignore him, to wait for Potter to come to him. Potter wasn't as insipid as that, and should Draco dismiss him, as hard as that would be, the name Draco Malfoy, to Harry Potter, at least, would be tagged as useless and fall into ignominy. If there was one thing Draco was sure about the prick, it was that he valued assets. And Draco knew Potter held very strict criteria to pinpoint who exactly was worth his time. _Bombastic tosser_, he cursed cruelly.

"It would be foolish of me to ask where you've been," he said, coming out of the shadows once Potter came in sight. "I'm not so presumptuous to think you would even tell me."

Potter had a cigarette in his hand, and he brought it up to his mouth slowly as his glorious (and Draco could give him that) eyes pinned the other boy to the wall. "Now that you've concluded that for yourself," Potter responded laughingly, taking a drag, "how can I be of service, Draco?"

There was no mistaking that leer, and Draco took it as his cue to move forward. "Can we speak privately?" he murmured.

Potter shrugged. "Well, you're chuffed about something, and I'll admit I'm curious," he said, waving a hand in the direction he had just come from. "We'll have to go to the Room of Requirement, I'm afraid, because I've a terrible feeling there are eyes in the guest quarters."

Draco gave him a look that said Potter was stupid for not realizing it sooner, and the boy gave him a look back that said Draco had it wrong and that it may just be in his best interest to shut up and walk. Their journey to the room was so quiet and awkward (at least on Draco's part) that he was reconsidering his talk with Potter. While they walked, he watched from the corner of his eye as Potter casually smoked his cigarette, likely assuming that Draco's need for conversation wouldn't bother him in the slightest. The ever untouchable and gently vicious Harry Potter…Draco shook his head and remained silent.

When they settled in the room comfortably, having used the mock Slytherin common room again, Potter stubbed out his smoke in a summoned ashtray and smiled kindly at Draco. "Would you like a drink?" he asked, ever the gentleman.

"Not particularly, no," Draco returned, sitting down. "Do you always give your visitors alcohol? Or is it reserved for casual fuck buddies?"

Potter grinned, pouring his own drink from a crystal decanter. "Just the casual fuck buddies," he agreed with a short laugh. "They usually appreciate it."

"Sorry to disappoint," Draco said sneeringly, not sorry at all. "I want to fuck you."

There was a moment when Potter's face froze in the interested expression he had donned upon Draco's request for a talk, and then Potter choked a bit and started to laugh.

"Very blunt, Draco," he chortled, bending at the waist and choking. "I didn't think you had it in you, love!"

Draco crossed his legs. "Yes, isn't it?" he said impassively, watching Potter light another smoke through his amusement. "Before you fulfill my request, I would first like to extend a Bind."

Potter stopped laughing. He gazed at Draco rather intensely, and his head tilted to the side in open curiosity as ash traveled from the tip of the cigarette to float onto the couch. "You're surprising me. I dislike surprises," Potter told him. There was such a serious expression on Potter's face that Draco wondered if his previous laughter had been real or imagined.

"I apologize for alarming you," Draco said. "But certain things have come to light that have made me desperate and selfish enough to concede to a Bind."

"Extend a Bind," Potter repeated in a whisper. His next words were louder and stronger. "Of course you know what it entails. It is more than a Magical Alliance to me."

Draco stared at him. "And far more to me, no doubt," he retorted with a raised eyebrow. "I'll take that drink now, if you don't mind."

Potter's face told of his amusement and shock concerning Draco's proffer. He got up and poured Draco a glass of scotch, casting a sidelong glance at him as if expecting him to continue. Draco waited until he had his drink and Potter had resumed his position to speak, just to be obnoxious.

"The war will be over soon," he started, casually turning the cup in his hands. "You'll begin another."

"What makes you think that?"

"You're ambitious," Draco explained, leaning forward. "You've contacts in the Muggle world. Likely powerful contacts. You have no interest in a peaceable future, based on your reluctance to complete your schooling in the Wizarding World and your general lack of care for anything concerning your heritage. You're going to defeat the Dark Lord and return to the Muggle World because you feel that is where you belong. But it doesn't stop there. You, Potter, have a problem with Wizards, and you want a fight. You're the kind of person who is always looking for a fight."

He suddenly sat back, pausing to take a sip. The alcohol burned down his throat like a brushfire. "All this time you've left to _visit _your Muggle friends is nothing but an ill-conceived disguise for your true motives. All this time, you've been preparing for war."

Potter didn't say anything, and then he drained his full glass in one go. "What's changed, Draco Malfoy?" he asked critically. "You've expressed many times how little you trust me. I give you the locket to save your skin, to reassure and calm you. But now you're coming at me. Really coming at me. And with a Bind? _Why_?"

"There aren't any sides anymore," he said to Potter, a bit callously. "There is one. That is yours. Am I to let the Malfoy name be soiled because I was too cowardly to join the winning side of the war? Of your war, even? Whatever you have planned will reach me with or without my involvement. If I'm to die for this nonsense, Potter, I'd rather be written in the history books as a legend and not a coward."

Potter shook his head. "You're always talking about death," he admonished idly. "Why do you think you'll die?"

Draco sat back and adjusted his dress shirt. "I'm not powerful, Potter. Not in the way that matters. I have money, yes, a reputation, of course. Raw magic, however, I cannot possibly boast about. I will die by the hand of the Dark Lord for my inadequacy."

"You'll survive his campaign, you know, and, with a Bind, you'll survive mine. It has little to do with personal power and everything to do with how well you play, after all."

"And yet," Draco said, dipping his head, "I am still at a disadvantage."

"Your intelligence is an advantage," Potter bit back. "And now you've given me your weaknesses and your strengths. You know the choices I have."

"To kill me," he concluded calmly. "Which would be a mercy, surely, or to accept the Bind."

Potter nodded, and then laughed and looked away. Draco hated how beautiful he was in that moment because his libido instantly reacted, and it was only made worse when those bright green eyes turned back to him as Potter rose from his seat and knelt beside Draco's chair.

Without an overture, Potter said, "Do you, Draco Malfoy, agree to the terms of an accepted Magical Alliance to me, Harry Potter?"

The Bind had the potential to hurt them both.

"Yes."

"Harry Potter's terms are thus: that Draco Malfoy will respect the wishes of Harry Potter at all times, no matter their moral strength or question."

"I agree."

"That Draco Malfoy should not betray Harry Potter's secrets, in either vocal or written form, be they trivial or grand, morally strong or questionable."

The log in the fireplace cracked loudly, but neither of them moved.

"I agree."

"That Draco Malfoy—" Potter paused to smile then. "—survive this war of the Dark Lord's, loyal to Harry Potter, and in the utmost physical and mental health."

Draco did not mask his surprise as he said, "I agree," he blinked and felt the magic wrap around him. "Harry Potter's terms are accepted. Draco Malfoy's terms are thus: that Harry Potter respect Draco Malfoy's decisions concerning his blood family."

Potter frowned curiously, but responded, "I agree."

"That Harry Potter treat Draco Malfoy fairly in every instance bar a direct order that inhibits a refusal."

"I agree."

He licked his lips and swallowed. "That Harry Potter never, under any circumstances, kill Draco Malfoy by his own hand."

Face slack with rage and shock, Potter did not immediately concede. Rather, he glared at Draco fiercely. He had the audacity to smirk in Potter's face, and it only widened when Potter spat out, "I agree. Draco Malfoy's terms are accepted."

The bind came to its climax with a concentrated snap, the power of it so immense that the sound was audible in the soft silence of the room.

"You berk," Potter cursed him, getting up.

He relaxed once more and simply raised an eyebrow. "You don't like restrictions on whom you can and can't kill, do you, Potter?" Draco wiggled his glass a bit to get Potter to top him off. "Binds are tricky, you know," he said pretentiously, taking a drink. "The risk is that you never know what the terms are. Sometimes they're ugly, and pulling out—"

"Pulling out of a half-done Bind means death," Potter mocked him in a high-pitched whine. Draco laughed. "You are a berk. Are you going to fuck me or not?"

Draco's eyes glowed brilliantly in the firelight as he ran them down Potter's body. "Don't mind if I do," he murmured, before rising to grasp Potter close.

.o00o.

Draco wasn't normally one for post-coital ramblings, but he knew that Potter was quite partial to them. With a new freedom that was granted solely by the instated Bind, he listened as the boy told him about his plans of war. In the aftermath of their rather rough coupling, Draco memorized Potter's words keenly and fancied himself triumphant.

"So the locket you gave me," he said to Potter idly, observing the slight stubble on the boy's face. "It was a piece of the Dark Lord's soul? How lovely."

"I'm going to have to have that back, by the way."

He laughed at Potter ungenerously. "I assume you're going to get rid of it, yes? How _do _you dispose of a piece of a soul?"

Potter leaned up on his elbow, his body stretched out on the couch languidly. "Basilisk venom," he explained simply.

Draco laughed again.

"_Fuck you_," Potter cursed him, looking away. "I don't even know where to find Basilisk venom, and you're not making this any easier with your bloody laughing."

"Really, Potter?" Draco snickered. "With the way this place gossips, I would have thought you would have heard about the Chamber of Secrets incident."

When all he was met with was a blank look, Draco sighed and told the boy about Dumbledore's valiant defeat of the Basilisk, which was still beneath the school and unmoved due to the dangers of extracting the dead creature. Snape had petitioned multiple times to enter the Chamber to harvest the remains of the giant snake, but Dumbledore was of the opinion that no one should be anywhere near Slytherin's legendary quarters ever again. Forbidden from entry as the place was, since Dumbledore had closed off the girls' bathroom where the Chamber was hidden, Draco told Potter he didn't know how the git could get in there. But Potter seemed pretty confident that it wouldn't be a problem. Draco simply rolled his eyes.

"Thanks for the information, Draco," Potter said, winking at him before rising to gather his clothes. Draco unabashedly observed the boy's naked backside until Potter slid a pair of jeans on, and he smiled very briefly because the view was still impeccably lovely. He got to his feet and stared dressing, as well.

"How many Horcruxes have you gathered out of the seven, if Dumbledore's assumption about the number is correct?" he asked absently, buckling his belt and flapping his shirt to get the wrinkles out.

Potter glanced at him, struggling to put a trainer on while hopping on one foot. "I've got two more," he confessed. "And Dumbledore's got two. One was a diary, of all things. He picked up the other, a ring that had a piece of the Dark Lord's soul in it, as well. Then there's the locket, and I found another piece in the oddest of places…" he stopped talking very suddenly and scratched his head.

Draco buttoned up his shirt. "I hate to tell you this, Potter, but that's only four. Where did you find the other one? The one in an odd place?"

"I have to collect one tonight. That's five. There are two unaccounted for. I have a theory that the Dark Lord's precious snake is a living Horcrux—"

"Is that even possible?" Draco interrupted, alarmed. He slipped on his shoes and smoothed down his trousers just as Potter wrestled his t-shirt back on.

When Potter's head emerged from the mess of his clothing, he gave Draco a sarcastic glare. "Of course it is," he said. "If Nagini is a Horcrux, then all I've left to find is the very last one. I have no bloody idea where or what it could be, though."

He watched as Potter finished dressing, liking the smooth ritual of putting on clothes and wondering why they hadn't stayed naked. Potter had the insufferable ability to look dashing in any state of undress, apparently. Draco ran a hand through his hair and caught Potter eyeing his movements subtly. At least the attraction went both ways, and though he was sure Potter would deny it, he knew the boy wasn't unaffected. Draco wouldn't dare say they _liked_ each other, but he could admit that there was a degree of tolerance, somewhere.

Draco couldn't help but think it was only because of the Bind that Potter had warmed to him. Despite his resolve to look out for himself and not attach himself to Potter more than he had to, Draco was a little disappointed that the Bind was the only thing that could inspire trust between them. But that was a pathetic sentimentality that Draco was hoping to leave behind, and he shook the thought away as Potter belatedly finished righting himself.

"Well then," he started, and Potter turned his attention to him, "is your Horcrux tonight a dangerous thing to find? Should I see you off and wish you a speedy return?"

Potter blinked. "Do me a favor, Draco," he said in a gravelly voice. "Think of the room you stashed the Vanishing Cabinet in."

"What? Why—"

"Oh_, _just_ fucking do_ _it_."

Shaking his head, Draco thought of the room and closed his eyes. For someone who had been moaning in ecstasy as Draco thrust into him until he climaxed, Potter sure was crabby. Upon opening his eyes, Potter was already marching off into the junk pile and sifting through it. He came up with something shiny wrapped in a piece of cloth much like the one the locket had been bundled in. Draco crossed his arms and waited for Potter to explain.

"Ravenclaw's diadem," he said idly, holding it up so that Draco could see it. "Ever since I came into this room I've known one was here. I just didn't know what it was."

"So that's five down? You never said what the odd one was," Draco reminded him.

Potter sneered. "I don't have to tell you fucking everything, do I?"

He didn't answer, choosing instead to conjure up the Slytherin common room once more. Sitting down on the sofa again, Draco summoned tea and motioned for Potter to join him, but the boy shook his head quickly and stuffed the diadem in his jacket pocket.

"I've got to run," he explained, making for the door while lighting a smelly cigarette. "I'm a busy man, you know."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "No thank you for the late night tryst?" he asked sardonically.

Potter merely laughed, shook his head, and left. The sound of the door closing echoed through the Room of Requirement, and Draco closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath. He felt the tension fall out of him, and he turned his gaze to the fire flickering in front of him.

"That went well," he said to the room.

The Bind would kill him if he disobeyed Potter's orders. The Bind would kill Potter if he killed Draco. The Bind was in place, stronger and more gruesome than the Unbreakable Vow any day. He finished his tea and smiled.

Malfoys, after all, were infamous for getting around the impossible. They were also known for getting _exactly_ what they wanted.


	26. Chapter Twenty Five: Intermission

Pistol Whipped

Chapter Twenty Five

Intermission_: Letters_

* * *

Rashidi,

Go to hell.

Love, Mack

.o00o.

To Alejandro Guillermo

Regards Alejandro,

News of England has reached Russia with more rumor than truth. Many of my people who have been informed of the war are far more worried that the defeat of one lord will only proceed to the rise of another, as you have correctly assumed in our last correspondence. With father's death not weeks prior to the whispers of a new war, my people and my business are thickened with suspicions and fear.

I do not wish to involve Russia in this war, sir. As the last head of the Novikov family, entangling us and our followers in this mess is out of the question. Too many of my people were caught in the cross fire of Britain's last magical war. As for Sanka Allstrat, he has yet to meet with me in regards to the Novikov dominion and apparently has no will to do so in the future. His presidency shall not last long, Alejandro.

You have mentioned Kort Lukasz to me. I wonder if you know of the blood between our families, and that, though I am the last Novikov to speak to Lukasz, I am certainly not the first to forsake him. You had best ask elsewhere for news of Lord Luka.

Between us, I would have trust, for you are the wisest of us, and your silence on matters of import until the very moment of distress, while making many of us flounder, gives me much admiration for you. Father always said a Novikov was like-minded to a Guillermo. In acknowledgement of this truth, I must ask you if one rumor has made it to Spanish tongues: Is it true, Andro, that someone seeks to begin a war between us and the wizards? I confess I am ambivalent as to what to think. The man behind the war (if he or she does exist) must be ingeniously careful or, perhaps, unprecedentedly stupid. You must realize, Andro, that, should a war of this magnitude begin, we would have little choice but to involve ourselves in it. You know, of course, the Novikovs' stance on Wizards.

Aleksy wishes you well, and I do hope this letter finds you in good health.

Sincerely, Mina Novikov

.o00o.

Lukasz,

You are very stubborn man. I am sorry, indeed, for your cousin's passing, but I had thought you honored through blood, and Oscar had a rather strong alliance to McAllister. We both know of the Americans' wish for war, and, by blood, you should be obligated to commit to the effort. I, however, have predicated your tenacity and have little to say about your pompous bunged 'neutrality.' Except for this: Buenos suerte.

Oh, and speak to Mina, will you? This feud you both have going is long past the ridiculous.

Alejandro M. Guillermo

.o00o.

Alejandro,

If I am stubborn then you must be the most hypocritical ass there ever was! Germans weigh blood heavily, and, therefore, despite my resentment, I should honor the last of the Van Rueds with an alliance. That is what you say. What you don't know is that I had planned to do so already. How do you like that?

I have nothing more to say.

Kort Lukasz

.o00o.

To Franklin McAllisterAlbany, New York

From Rashidi Shad

Rudeck has refused. Give Henry my sincerest apologies, but the man is an ugly bastard.

Rashidi

.o00o.

Dear Henry,

All is well here in New York, or as well as it can be for this type of fast maneuvering. I blame you fully for this uprising so suddenly taking wing; you didn't have to destroy the Vatican, kid. I haven't spoken to Guillermo directly, but I've no doubt he has heard of our movements already.

Rashidi, as well, has a big, stupid mouth. Lee contacted me yesterday, relaying a message from his cousin Chi Zing or Chi Dang or whatever the fuck his name is. Anyway, he's interested in the modified weapons because Rashidi mentioned them. Greedy bastards.

Also, apparently, Mack told Rashidi to go to hell, which, despite making an enemy of Shad, I found particularly funny. I would really rather not deal with Mina Novikov, Henry, but I know it must be done. If I contact her directly, she'll gather that I owe her something, so I'll wait for her maniac half-Russian-half-English letter to arrive demanding answers.

John's been complaining about Denny, though he's probably already called you about it. I sent Denny on a couple of hits, but he's still restless as hell. You two are so alike, I don't think you're adopted, kid. I think Denny knocked up some English bird, and she didn't tell him because that ugly face of Denny's meant she was probably going to pop out a gremlin.

The munitions factory has a couple hundred on the payroll now. I know you just visited the place and fiddled with the 'power cores,' or whatever the hell you called them, but there's still close to a hundred thousand guns without magic. No rush, really, Henry, but people are talking, and the big guys are taking notice. So, you know, you may want to rush a little bit. I meant to ask you, by the way, does putting your power in these guns weaken you? Rashidi asked as well because (if you haven't noticed) he's taken a liking to you in a strictly non-homosexual way. There's a first time for everything.

The school you're at must be full of window lickers. Owls suck ass for delivering post. They bite.

Frank McAllister

.o00o.

Frankie,

I've told Denny to calm the fuck down. He hasn't. I'll tell him again. Once I finish this Dark Lord business in England, I'll head to the factory and zap the guns. To answer your question, I'm not using my own power, but rather the lay lines of magic in the earth. I'm like a sieve for it, and it doesn't weaken me, nor is it painful. It's a bit like rubbing one off.

Rudeck is an unmitigated imbecile. I've no patience for him and neither should Rashidi. To blazes with him. Guillermo _is _talking, and though you're hesitant to do so, Mina Novikov must be contacted. Kindly, if you please. Meeting with her lot is wise, and we both know it. I'm proud of you, old man. Give me a bit and we'll have this show on the road. Mind this owl, he hates people with blue eyes and graying hair. And Franks, damn those Franks.

Love, Henry


	27. Chapter Twenty Six

A/n: Sorry to those that noticed my not updating last week. As lovely as Vegas was, it was time to come home and get back to work. Oh, and I've been looking for a song to explain just how Draco and Harry work as lovers, and for the life of me, I couldn't find a good one. Until, of course, I was listening to the radio and they played this song: Crystalised by The XX. It's their song. Maybe it will explain some things. Check it out. Next chapter is the climax of this story. Aren't you all excited?

Dedication: To Amazonia, per usual, for her beta skills and her beautifulness. Oh, how I adore her. Also, to those that continue to review each chapter. You make it worth the trouble, loves.

A Few Responses: **ana**: Thank you, my love! Draco will be taken down a peg or two, but Harry's not far behind. They'll one up each other, and then eat a star. And yes, I'm now singing the Mario song for your enjoyment. **Sarah**: well, I didn't think it was a filler...I thought it was a plot pusher. Fillers, to me, are like random crap added in a story to lengthen it. Or I could be wrong. Anyway, Draco was clever last chapter, wasn't he? The cutie. **Fudgebaby**: Glad you did! Are we ready to wind this story down? I know I am.

Warnings for this chapter: language, mentions of violence, slight angst, and a cliffhanger.

* * *

Pistol Whipped

Chapter Twenty Six

The legendary Chamber of Secrets didn't seem quite so legendary from the outside entryway of the girl's lavatory. For one, the faucets were all leaking terribly, and, as a consequence of the poor state of the pipes, the floor beneath his feet was crusted with grime and dirt. There also happened to be a rather annoying ghost hovering over the wash fountain, screeching about him lingering in her bathroom. Draco had mentioned a Moaning Myrtle that lived in the stalls, but Harry really hadn't been paying attention. He regretted it considerably now because the intolerable manifestation seemed intent on diverting him from entering the Chamber. He thought, briefly, of shooting her, but reasoned that it would only be a waste of a bullet.

"I _know_ I'm not supposed to be here—"

"The headmaster told me to keep everyone out! You have to _leave_!"

Harry rubbed his temples, glaring up at her. "I just need to get to the goddamn sink," he said, his teeth gritted harshly.

"That's where the headmaster said no one should go!"

"Stop _yelling_!"

She screeched, her temperament practically pleasant before now as she worked herself into a raging froth. When he had finally had enough, Harry took out his gun and waved it at her. "I'll kill you a second time if you don't shut the fuck up and move out of the way!" he threatened.

"I'll tell the headmaster! I will!"

He could honestly say he didn't give a flying fuck what she told the headmaster, and he told her his thoughts on that particular matter with vicious anger. Myrtle's eyes widened, and she let out a bellow of grief before she took herself down the closest toilet stall.

Glad to see her gone, though a bit disgusted at her method of departure, he edged closer to the wash fountain and bade it open with no more preamble. It acquiesced, as was expected. What wasn't expected, however, was the abyss before him that led to the Chamber of Secrets. He deftly grabbed a coin out of his pocket and flipped it into the darkness. The sound of metal hitting stone came not five seconds later, and the sound of it sliding to the very bottom told him it wasn't a drop to his death. It would hurt though.

Apparently, this Salazar Slytherin bloke got his jollies off of ruining one hundred dollar jeans. Sighing, he swiftly lowered himself into the entrance, taking a slight breath before letting go of the pipes. He fell, at first, like a led balloon, and then the less than gentle slide caught him and took him down in one quick, disgusting scoop. He was pretty sure there was slime where slime shouldn't be. He grimaced internally when he felt his descent narrow and straighten, and then he prepared to catch his fall. It was a lucky thing he had thought ahead, because the ride ended in a pile of bones and grime. He levitated himself down slowly, the crunch beneath his feet positively repugnant, and took a look at the state of his jeans. Casting a thorough cleaning spell, he sneered at the floor of the Chamber as he brushed himself off.

"You're violating serious health codes, Dumbledore," he muttered accusingly, lighting up a smoke and inhaling deeply. He looked at the passageway before him and sighed. "Let's get this over with," he said to no one.

.o00o.

He emerged from the Chamber around lunch time and suddenly fancied enjoying a meal with the Gryffindor students. Having avoided the Great Hall for a while, he was sure Ron and Ginny were a bit angry at him. He kept his head down, watching as his boots clicked on the stone as he walked, and he did not feel the vial of venom in his padded coat pocket.

He was tired.

It had been a long few days, draining in every way, and he wondered how many long days were ahead of him. It was a thought Harry hadn't humored in a very long time. He knew exactly what was making him so weary, because his usual schedule hadn't changed, except for that one thing.

Moving, moving, moving. That had never quite tuckered him out before, which meant his tiredness had more to do with his current lover. His only lover.

There was no denying that his body wanted Draco Malfoy. He couldn't bare the thought of being with Frank, his casual lover that was more like a favored associate than even a friend, anymore. He wanted smooth skin and a strong body. He wanted concentrated grey eyes looking down at him as if he were the most hated boy in the world. He wanted all of the loathing Draco gave him, all of the lust, and all of the dominion. Frankie felt inferior to him now, but Draco had changed in the last few days and only for the better.

Draco couldn't stand Harry, he _hated_ him, but, oh, how he desired him too. He had known exactly what he was doing with the Bind. He had known exactly what he'd wanted. His words swirled about Harry's head now as he journeyed down the silent halls of the school. The vow that Harry would not kill him was a slam against his pride. Harry didn't think he'd ever been so insulted. Draco had told him, with his careful cruelty, that Harry didn't have the courage to kill him himself. That Harry would use his associates to dispose of Draco. That nothing so much as a lover mattered to him enough to kill them personally.

It was quite obvious that Draco didn't trust him, but to go as so far as to insinuate that he expected to be killed by at least one of Harry's men showed that Draco didn't have any hope for him and thought he was close to, if not entirely, a monster. It wasn't the first time people had thought Harry capable of something that even he would mark as immoral. Somehow, he didn't think it would be the last. It didn't stop him from catching his breath, though, from feeling the vice-like cramp in his chest that signified a deep, numb agony.

Draco Malfoy had sought to hurt him, and, miraculously, he had done so. Harry shook the thought away and cleared his throat. He simply wasn't what people thought he was, their ideas of his mercy were wrong, and Harry was right because he _could _boast that he knew himself. Harry resolved to ignore the accusation. He couldn't ignore Draco, however, because he was still attracted to him. Still damned.

How attached _was _he to the ostentatious blond? Harry was sure he wasn't dependant upon him, because he was rarely dependant upon anyone. If that was what dependant meant. He knew that he didn't love Draco, that Draco didn't love him. It wasn't a factor, anyway, because love was something that left Harry's hands empty. He hoped no one would ever look to him for answers when it came to love. It was something incomprehensible to him. It confused him; he didn't see the point to it when people lived and died without warning. When people left for better opportunities. How _could _people love when everyone was inherently selfish? As much as he didn't understand love, Harry knew there were those he would mourn if they were to die, those he would miss if they were gone. Was that love? Would he miss Draco if the boy died, as he kept prophesizing?

He had reached the Great Hall. The questions would have to wait, it seemed, because he was tired, and all he wanted was a warm meal and, possibly, a comfortable bed. Harry took a breath and entered, ignoring the eyes following him, the cool grey stare of the object of his thoughts. Ron and Ginny brightened when they noticed him approaching, and he couldn't help but smile back.

"Where you been, mate?" Ron said, his mouth full and his eyes relieved. "You were supposed to sit in on Snape's Potions lesson this morning."

Harry slapped a hand to his forehead. Snape _had _mentioned that Dumbledore had requested he sit in on Potions! He had totally forgotten. He glanced up at Snape then, only to see him glowering down at their group. If looks could kill, Harry thought wryly, knowing he would pay for his truancy later.

"I'm dead, aren't I?" he said to Ron as he sat down. Ginny scooted over to join them, nearly displacing Hermione from her seat. The bushy-haired witch glared.

"You're close to it," Ginny grinned laughingly. "Where've you been, anyway?"

Harry shuffled food onto his plate and shrugged one shoulder. "I had some people to visit," he told her. "Snape could have reminded me. I talked to him when I got back. Dumbledore _should_ have said something, too, since I spoke with him as well."

Hermione's head popped out from over Ginny's shoulder, and she was scowling at him. "Just because you're forgetful doesn't mean everyone has to remind you of things!" she snapped. "The entire world doesn't revolve around you, after all."

Ron was giving Hermione a look that could have either meant ire on Harry's behalf or a sudden bout of constipation. Harry pointed his fork at her, a piece of pork hanging precariously off of the end, and said, "Leave off for once, will you?"

Her face went red and Ginny smothered a traitorous giggle with her hand. Ron took that as his cue to change to subject. "Mum sent me a letter. Surprised it wasn't a Howler, actually. She wants to know when you'll be visiting," he informed them as he munched.

"I suppose when we have another Order meeting," Harry said with another shrug. "Or when I get invited to one, anyway."

"How do you know they haven't invited you?" Hermione added crossly, her eyes snapping to a thrown sprout that landed on the Ravenclaw table. When she couldn't spot the criminal sprout-thrower, she turned back to Harry and sneered. "You've been gone so much, they probably couldn't tell you about the meeting. How you're able to come and go without so much as a by-your-leave is unfathomable to me."

Harry nodded absently, watching another sprout get tossed with a slight frown. "You may be right, Hermione," he said sarcastically. "You may be right."

As she hopped up from her seat to reprimand the students, as prefects were apparently supposed to do, Harry turned to Ron and gave him a look. "I may have to kill your girlfriend, Ron," he warned casually.

Ginny sniggered. "It's not Hermione's fault that she's like that. She used to be worse before Ron and I became friends with her," she told him, crossing her arms on the table.

"Is that even bloody possible?"

Ron dipped his head sagely and stuffed another pork chop in his mouth. "Hermione didn't have any friends in first or second year, but then the Chamber of Secrets happened," Ginny continued.

"Oh yeah?" he asked, suddenly interested. "I heard someone was possessed that year," he mentioned idly.

"Possessed?" Ron spoke up, wiping his mouth. "I didn't hear anything about that, Chrissie, who've you been talking to?"

Ginny frowned at him. "The Chamber was opened and there was a Basilisk petrifying the students. Hermione figured out where the entrance was and was taken hostage by the heir of Slytherin. Dumbledore saved her."

So the Granger girl had dealt with Tom Riddle's diary, Harry thought quickly.

"She was so sad and lonely after that," Ginny sympathized, tearing a bread roll in half. "Ron was a gentleman, and he started doing homework with her."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "Ron does homework? I thought he couldn't read?"

Before he could throw a sprout at him, since, it seemed, that was the new trend, a green bean hit Ron square in the face just as Hermione rounded on the second year that had thrown it and furiously took points away. Harry couldn't help but laugh at his best friend's expense.

"You say she's been better since then?" he asked when the ruckus had died down, his eyes on Hermione.

"She's quieter," Ron grunted.

Ginny huffed at him. "She's more mature and less hurt by people, I think," she explained. "She's more or less tolerable, Chrissie. She just doesn't like you."

Harry chuckled wryly. "I think I noticed that, thanks," he said, turning back to Ron. "Well, mate? Why does your girlfriend think I'm the Antichrist?"

"Anti-what?" he mumbled, before shaking his head and giving up on the word. "She thinks you're a criminal," he said.

"That's not all of it, Ron," Ginny corrected him, rather frustrated. "She doesn't trust a lot of people, you see." She leaned forward and suddenly looked sad. "Ever since the incident she's been keeping to herself. You come in and she has to accept you because you're Ron's best mate and practically my older brother. She isn't taking to it well."

Scratching his neck, Harry nodded absently. They abruptly changed the subject when Hermione came back over to them. Harry finished up his plate, mopping up the roast's sauce with his bread, as they talked over him.

The Horcrux had messed with Hermione Granger badly, it seemed. He watched her carefully, and he knew that it had near broken her. She was the one who had been possessed. Harry wasn't all that surprised, but he wasn't sympathetic. The past was the past, after all, and she was old enough now to put it behind her. Harry didn't think strong people carried their baggage about, letting it weigh them down and, eventually, drown them. At least Ginny and Ron were there, he thought idly. The Weasleys were good people, and they would help.

He felt bad having not visited Molly and Arthur for a while.

"This summer," he said suddenly, interrupting Ron and Ginny. "I'll visit this summer. I miss your Mum too."

Ginny grinned at him. "We miss you over there," she said. "Fred and George have asked about you too, and so has Charlie."

Harry wracked his memory to bring up a picture of Charlie's face, but, for the life of him, he couldn't remember. "Charlie, the dragon bloke?" he asked, taking a swig of juice. "I only met him once, I think."

"He's seen your picture in the paper," Ron mumbled, looking completely downtrodden when the food disappeared. Harry smiled softly at him.

"I've a picture in the paper?" he asked.

Ginny nodded, packing up her book bag for the next class. "Ever since you got here you've been all over the Daily Prophet," she explained, looking mischievous. "It's no wonder Charlie wanted to see you again."

Ron sputtered. "What's that supposed to mean? Charlie's a poof, but Chrissie isn't, so why's he got to go after him?" he demanded to know.

His sister sneered at him and gave Harry a look. "Do you have something against your bent brother, Ron?" she asked chidingly, getting up.

"No!" he denied, almost too quickly. "It's just he's gone through nearly every bloke on the reserve, and you'd think he'd have some dignity about it."

"Hmm…" Harry raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like my kind of guy, actually."

Ron glared at him, though he didn't seem alarmed or distressed with Harry's declaration. "You'll break Charlie's heart," he said finally. "Stay away from him."

Harry laughed, rising with them and following as they toddled to their next class. Hermione caught up about halfway down the hall and was silent as they joked about harmlessly. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw her eyes harden and her teeth cut through to her lip. He scoffed internally and separated from them at the fork to the dungeons and his rooms. The bed waiting for him sounded so lovely that he could barely contain his happy sigh.

Unfortunately, there was someone occupying his rooms when he finally got inside. Bo swiveled his head around to greet him, and though Harry longed for sleep, he couldn't help but hug Bo warmly. "How are you, my dear?"

Bo didn't answer right away, but he did curve his body around Harry's and sigh in obvious contentment. "I'm well, human father," he rumbled. "Griphook wants to speak with you."

Harry laid his head on Bo's cool scales. "I could sleep right here," he murmured.

"You seem tired. Tired like a Dragon is when they fly too much," Bo commented, purring now.

"I am that, my Bo. Did Griphook say what the matter was?"

Bo snuffled and shook his massive head. "Griphook doesn't talk to us much anymore. He did say that he had a surprise for you. Something about a cup in someone's vault and a soul, or something. Humans and Goblins are a lot alike, I suspect, because you both say unimportant things in riddles that don't make _any _sense to dragons!"

"A soul, eh?" Harry perked up, getting a second wind. He climbed out of Bo's hold and grabbed up his gun and pack of cigarettes. "That sounds pretty important to me, love."

His phone went off.

Bo looked around for the source of the ringing, and Harry flipped his phone open to see a message from Frankie: _Denny wants to talk. What do I do?  
_

Harry breathed in and let out a huge sigh. It looked like he wouldn't be sleeping tonight. As he rounded a reluctant Bo up and touched the pendant, he flashed a longing look at his bed before the Portkey whisked them away.

.o00o.

Griphook did not give him even a moment to gather himself. He pounced on Henry immediately and demanded the venom, the diadem, the locket, and the container, which Henry gave over with a short glare. Griphook told them he would be back and disappeared, leaving Henry with Bo and Tenebres.

"Well, Dragon Speaker," Ten said cheerfully. "I don't think I've ever seen you in my humble abode so much! Pray tell, what are you and the Gold Dealer up to?"

Henry lifted a shoulder, looking sheepish. "Just a little project, Ten. Griphook's an excellent metalworker, did you know?" he mentioned kindly.

Bo rolled his eyes. "Everyone knows that Goblins are the best with metals. Dragon father _would_ know," he chastised. "Even _I _knew."

Puzzled, Henry motioned to Bo and looked to Ten for an answer. "It is time for Bo to grow up!" Ten explained proudly. "His disagreeable attitude means our little Bo is on his way to becoming a fully grown dragon!"

"I am _not _disagreeable!"

"You mean like puberty?" Henry asked, amused as he turned back to Bo. "Going to go after a girl dragon now, dearest? Woo her with your ability to eat an entire herd of sheep?"

"That just means I'm a good hunter!" Bo protested. "And besides, why can't I like a male dragon and not a female dragon? You like the male ones!"

Henry choked on a laugh. "Is he even capable of getting with a male dragon?" he questioned Ten quietly as Bo continued to lecture them on just who was the most disagreeable.

Ten blinked. "He doesn't understand the concept, no," Ten informed him, his bemused eyes on Bo. "His instincts are different than yours, and he won't be mating with any males. With his size, they'd likely tear him to pieces if he tried. Poor Bo."

"—so I can be a gay dragon if I _want_ to," Bo finished, snorting at them.

"Don't you want to have drakes, Bo?" Henry asked, trying very hard not to laugh.

Bo straightened up at that and put on an imperious sort of pout. "Of course I do, human father! My male dragon and I will have our drakes! They will be the best drakes there ever were!"

Henry couldn't help it, he lost it completely. "What's so _funny_?" Bo asked, insulted. "What? What!"

Ten nuzzled Bo chidingly. "Two male dragons cannot have drakes, Bo; it isn't the way of things," Ten told him.

"Well, why not? What's the difference, anyway?"

Henry looked at Ten with wide eyes. "You haven't explained it to him yet? He's going through puberty! What if he hurts himself?"

"You're his father as well," Ten huffed defensively. "Why did you not explain it to him?"

"I'm not a bloody dragon! How would I know where to stick it!"

Griphook cleared his throat from behind them, and Henry spun around. "Is it done?" he asked the goblin, glad to not have to continue the conversation between Bo and Ten.

"It's done," Griphook told him, handing the container back. "All that is left is your own, and, of course, the snake."

Henry blinked. "We're sure it's Nagini now?" he queried, surprised.

"We have had a visit from the snake," Griphook said, showing teeth. "She was with a client while they deposited something very interesting into their vault. The Elders all agreed that the snake known as Nagini is a Horcrux."

He ran a hand through his hair. "So, I've got to kill the bloody snake." He closed his eyes briefly and coughed. "It'll have to be at the last minute."

"Why not go to him?" Bo piped up, looking cross. "You know the coordinates! Pop in like you wizards do and bring the snake back. I'll have her for pudding!"

Henry cracked a small smile at him. "I would, love, but I can't kill Nagini until the very end. Actively going after her would alert Voldemort that I am seeking to destroy his Horcruxes."

"Oh, yes, well," Bo sniffed. "I had thought of that, too, but I thought we could maybe work around it."

Henry laughed and turned back to Griphook. "So we're missing one. I don't know what to do about that—"

"Perhaps I could give it to you," Griphook interrupted, snapping his fingers. A round something fell into his hands, and Henry leaned forward to look at it. It was a golden cup, and it looked both expensive and dangerous. He could feel the dark magic wafting off of it, and he glanced up at Griphook in surprise. This_was_ a Horcrux, the last and final one, the one that Henry was frightened he would never find.

"This was what Narcissa Malfoy decided to put in her sister's vault a day ago," Griphook told him. "It is a Horcrux, and it's dangerous, so you'd best be careful around it."

Henry couldn't believe his luck. "My god," he choked out. "Griphook, you've just saved my arse, do you realize?" He took the cup and raised it up, careful to only touch the clothed part, and smiled at his golden reflection. "This calls for a celebratory cigarette," he said, wrapping the cup back up and putting it underneath one arm. He lit his smoke and motioned to the two dragons and Griphook. "Want one?"

Their blank stares answered that question. He had a sudden thought as he was puffing joyfully, and he turned back to Griphook and frowned. "Will you get in trouble for this?" he asked, unsure.

"The Elders have all agreed that it would be beneficial for us to help you find the pieces of the Dark Lord's soul. Malfoy and Lestrange will never know because, despite the meddling of the ministry, Gringotts belongs to the goblins."

"Well," Henry said, his cigarette lodged at the corner of his mouth. "This is a good day, I think. Griphook, thank you, again."

Bo came over to inspect the artifact, sniffing at it before shaking his head and turning away. Ten congratulated Griphook on his find and seemed quite excited that plans were well underway. The goblin Henry liked to think of as a friend did not seem so chipper, however.

"You need to transfer the cup," Griphook told him severely. "And the other. The _other_, Mr. Brooks."

Henry raised an eyebrow at him. "Yes, I know. I'll do it before—"

"You'll do it when you get the gun!" Griphook snapped at him. "You must do it soon. I've warned you how the extraction will be. It won't be painful at first, this is true, but later it will, Mr. Brooks! You also cannot afford to have anything wrong with your body—"

"There's nothing wrong with me," Henry argued, cutting him off. "And since when did my health matter to you? We're in this together to kill the Dark Lord, in this together for only that reason. Don't start caring, Griphook, I'm not capable of giving the same sentiment back!"

Griphook growled at him. "But you _will_ be capable! Once his soul is out of you, you will _feel_. You're going feel everything you've never felt before. You may even regret. Take heed now before you're overwhelmed with it, _wizard_."

Henry looked at his feet, breathing deeply. "I'm stronger than that," he said.

"No." Griphook shook his head. "No, you're not."

Licking his bottom lip harshly and looking away, Henry calmed himself down slowly before turning back to Griphook. The goblin had the nerve to appear smug.

"Thank you for your help," he said formally. "I'll follow your advice."

"You'll see a healer."

Henry scowled at him, but Griphook remained unmoved. "The soul could be keeping back the power of the gun. Because your arm is still not healed, it is logical that something is keeping the curse from continuing, but the curse itself has not been eradicated."

"Fine," Henry said, very reluctantly. "I'll see a healer."

Griphook smiled at him. "Good. You can show yourself out, I imagine," he said, departing without another word. Henry watched him go, remembering the lit cigarette in his hand and pulling it up to his mouth angrily.

"And you call _me _disagreeable!" Bo said haughtily, and Henry grinned, deciding to let the goblin's annoying behavior go. Unaffected, he bid goodbye to Bo and Ten, extending his farewells so that Bo wouldn't have a tantrum. When he popped out of Gringotts, he couldn't help but think Griphook was hiding something. That Griphook knew more about the imminent future than what was possible. Henry's pride would not allow him to heed the warning, however, and he arrived at Tyler's old manor with a sense of self-righteous independence. Whatever it was Griphook thought he couldn't handle, he would meet without breaking a sweat.

At least, he hoped.

.o00o.

Denny was waiting for him when he arrived. Henry smiled beautifully at seeing him, but his father didn't seem too happy. Frankie's text obviously meant he hadn't talked to Denny yet, and he was hoping Henry would get to him first to, probably, calm him down. It looked like Denny had found out that Frankie was consorting with his son, and not in an innocent way, either.

Henry let out a sigh for the millionth time that day, throwing the cup on a chair before plopping down next to his father. "What's up, mate?" Henry asked, grinning stupidly.

"You know what's up," Denny told him, looking positively murderous. "You and Frankie have been messing about!"

He looked away, much too tired for this. Denny fell silent, but Henry could feel him staring. "I'm sorry, Den," Henry said softly.

Denny was quiet for a while. "He didn't hurt you, did he?" When Henry gave him a look, he nodded grudgingly. "Yeah, I know. It's Frankie. Soft idiot."

"He wouldn't ever hurt me," Henry said, shifting in his seat. "I'm not even with him anymore. Not that way, at least."

His father frowned, crossing his arms casually. "So who are you with now? Someone your own bloody age, finally?"

Henry chuckled lowly and turned to stare at his father. His answer must have shown on his face rather blatantly because Denny's mouth dropped open.

Then it turned into a grin. "Really?" Denny asked, surprised. "You're really going after someone your own age! It's a fucking miracle!"

"Yeah, yeah." Henry swatted him. "Ha, ha. He's a student at the magic school," he explained.

"Is it serious?" Denny asked, and Henry noticed then how interested his father seemed; whereas, before prison, Denny would have preferred not to hear anything about it.

"No," Henry responded, observing the man across from him. "What's the matter with you, anyway? Prison made you soft?" he asked before he could stop himself. "You haven't yelled at me once since you got out. Not even one word about what's been happening while you've been doing a bird! What's the matter with you?"

"What's the matter with _me_?" Denny repeated, askance. "What's the matter with _you_?"

"Oh, shut it," Henry snapped, getting up to get a drink. "Really, Den, you're different!"

Denny scoffed at him. "I've lightened up, kid! Time will do that to you! You end up so fucking bored behind bars that you carry the tedium with you when you leave! I'm _fucking_ relaxing here!"

"Okay," he said, accepting Denny's reasoning. "You want to know nothing about what's going on in the world and what I have to do with it?"

"I could give two shits," Denny told him, shaking his head grumpily. "Just don't get killed, and make sure you know what you're doing."

Henry handed him a drink. "I know what I'm doing," he tried to reassure, but Denny looked skeptical.

"Alright," his father said at last, raising his glass in a small toast. "If you say so. I doubt I could persuade you to do anything otherwise, so I'm going to go along with it."

Henry smiled. "You're a good dad," he complimented.

Lifting his feet and plopping them down on the sofa table, Denny gave him a glare and scoffed lightly. "I'm probably the worst father in the world," he muttered into his glass. "For lack of a good son, though."

"Hey!"

"Don't be cross with me, my life is suddenly mundane," Denny pouted, cracking his neck and sinking further into his seat. "McKay doesn't have a sense of humor and that wife of his is a dragon lady. Not to mention she's rather fit. I've not had a biddy in my bed, you know."

Henry couldn't believe Denny had brought that up. "That's disgusting!" he shouted. "You don't talk about that with your kids, Den!"

Rather than showing his son just how sorry he was, Denny merely threw his head back and laughed, holding his stomach and his drink as he cackled.

"There's something wrong with you," Henry pointed at him. "They did something to you in that prison. Was it rape?"

Denny laughed harder.

"Oh, god, it was rape. They've _broken_ you!"

John chose that moment to flounce in, looking upset about something. Henry could hear Mary yelling from another room until the door properly closed, and he gave the man a sympathetic smile. "On the rocks, Uncle John?" he asked.

Instead of answering, John jutted a thumb at the still guffawing Denny. "What's the matter with him?" he questioned, frowning.

"Rape."

He accepted that as an appropriate explanation and sat down beside Henry on the couch. Henry poured a drink for him. "I hear you two are driving each other barmy," he said to them both, catching Denny's attention. "Do I have to separate you like five-year-olds?"

"Your father needs to grow up," John said to Henry.

"Your friend needs to grow a pair," Denny told him.

"Well, your father seems to think this house belongs to him."

"Well, your friend is forgetting that I was here first!"

"Well-"

"Seriously?" Henry interrupted them, slouching down. "I can't believe you two are pulling this shit. I own this house, so I decide who lives in it. If we can't all get along I'll chuck you lot out on the street, and you can live there. It's not that hard, trust me."

Denny scoffed at him, refilling his glass and grabbing up a half-eaten bag of cashews. "You don't _own_ the manor! Tyler owned it. Tyler's dead. Technically we're squatting."

"Technically, you should shut the fuck up," John snapped.

Henry sighed wearily, resting his head against the back of the sofa. "Tyler left me this manor in his will. Though I don't own it legally, no one is going to dispute me being here," he explained.

John grimaced, choking back a shot. "Didn't you kill Tyler?" he asked, as if he had just remembered.

Rolling his head in John's direction, Henry said indifferently, "That's why I don't own it legally."

"Ah, he's just fucking with you," Denny said, waving Henry's comments off. Despite the fact that Henry was indeed messing about, he flipped his father the bird for interrupting. "The manor belongs to Constance Tyler, my old boss's daughter. She's a cunt and doesn't come here because her mother says this place is a house of evil, or something of the kind."

When John looked confused, Henry extrapolated, "They got a divorce."

"I can imagine she'd be pretty pissed if she were to find us living here, eh?" John mentioned wryly.

"Who's pissed? No one is pissed!" Denny slurred, having yet another drink. He let out a short laugh and toasted them both. "But I'm getting there yet, mate!"

Henry smiled at his father and took his glass away, ignoring the ruckus it caused. Mary called for John once again, likely too disgusted with their guests to come down and get her wayward husband. Henry was sorry that she felt that Denny was a nuisance, and that he himself was a danger to her children. John had explained her stance on Bo in the backyard and the attack a week ago, and he could say he understood, but he didn't have to be happy about it. Even though Mary was surely overreacting, Henry didn't have the balls to tell her to her face. That woman was scary.

"There's been talk lately," Denny suddenly said, crossing his arms over his chest and laying down on the opposite sofa. "There's been talk that you know how to start a war, but you don't know what you're fighting for."

Henry blinked. He crossed his legs and lit a smoke, observing his father silently, who had his eyes closed and seemed to be on the brink of dozing. When the quiet lasted too long, Denny popped one eye open to stare at him.

"Who said this to you?" Henry asked softly.

"Everyone," he responded, yawning. "Frank, John, Rashidi..." Denny shrugged a bit. "They know your game, but not your motive."

Henry licked his lips, finishing off his glass before setting it down. "Have you ever read the poem _Liberty_?" he queried, knowing the answer but asking anyway.

"Who's it by?" Denny grunted.

"Edward Thomas," he said. "It's a wonderful poem. I read it once on a slip of newspaper. It was in London, months before we'd met. On the anniversary of the day Thomas died, they printed that poem from him. He was a war hero, you know."

Denny made a sound in the back of his throat to show that he was listening.

"Anyway, it was the first time I'd ever read any sort of poetry before. It was the first poem I'd ever read. Thomas spoke of freedom, but not about fighting for it. He wondered if being free was natural, if it was possible-I thought then, given my circumstances, that I had the ultimate freedom. Thomas was talking about me. About how I lived nowhere and did nothing, but I was 'so rich to be so poor'. And then I read the last verse."

He paused there, and Denny cracked open his eyes again and stared at him.

"I should be rich; or if I had the power, to wipe out every one and not again," he recited. "Regret, I should be rich to be so poor. And yet I still am half in love with pain, with what is imperfect, with both tears and mirth, with things that have an end, with life and earth, and this moon that leaves me dark within the door."

Denny remained silent.

"He wasn't talking about me at all," Henry explained, clearing his throat. "I understand what he meant now."

"And what did he mean?" Denny whispered.

Henry took a breath and laughed lightly, pulling on the end of his smoke. "He meant what I mean for this war of mine, and that should be reason enough for everyone," he said.

Groaning, his father turned about on the sofa and covered his eyes with his hands. "Ah, fuck you," he cursed Henry, who laughed. "If you won't tell me, lad, I don't need to know."

"You'll understand when you're older, Den," he teased.

Denny threw a sofa cushion at him, before turning his back and promptly falling asleep. His snores echoed as Henry rose to leave, cleaning up their used cups and closing up the bag of cashews. He threw a blanket over Denny and shut the window. It was not yet time to sleep. Not for him. Not yet.

.o00o.

"'The last light has gone out of the world," he whispered to himself as he walked. The portrait to his rooms closed behind him softly, and the candles lit alongside the ready fire. Harry took his coat off, removing his bag of artifacts from around his shoulder. It fell onto the table with a tiny clank, and he unpacked each thing quickly. The cup gleamed in the dim light of the room.

He remembered, but it had been so very long ago. How had it felt?

"_The spell you used," Griphook said over the wind. "Where did you learn to cast like that?" _

"_I don't know if it worked," Henry admitted sadly. "I hope it did. I wanted it so that you didn't have to make one every time Bo left, so I fiddled around with it a bit." _

_Griphook laughed. "Fiddled around with it. Fiddled…" he shook his head as Henry gave him a confused frown. "That was a very impressive show of magic you did," he said. "You have potentially opened a magical passage in the structure of the very makeup of the universe. Without an anchor and with only your own reserves." _

A passageway, Harry brainstormed. He took up the cup in one hand, and the container in the other. _Two locations, the essence of each_, he rehearsed, _one likeness to another_. The cup began to burn through the cloth in his hand. He felt the Horcrux buck like a startled animal, ready to hurt whoever decided to displace it. _Transfer, hold, connect_, he thought to himself, and then he said it aloud.

"Transfer," he said, and the cup shook. "Hold." It screeched very suddenly, so startling he almost dropped it to the ground. "Connect," he told it, louder. His litany lasted until the influx of magic overwhelmed the Horcrux, and it shot down the passageway he had created and into the tiny container. "Connect," Harry muttered, sealing the deed.

Helga Hufflepuff's cup clattered to the floor, useless and drained of the soul that had inhabited it for so long. He sighed wearily, and placed the container down.

There was little else to do but transfer the last Horcrux. Harry could admit that he was worried. He was anxious that the spell wouldn't hold, that the magic would turn on him. There was no other alternative though, and he picked up the container again and repeated the same words as before, only now he focused on the Horcrux inside of him. It burned, not painfully, but uncomfortably. It felt as though someone was slowly heating up his chest before casting light flames on his fingers and toes. The burning traveled and increased in intensity, until he felt as though he may scream from the feeling of _wrongness_ coursing through him.

He snapped his eyes closed and clenched his teeth, riding out the strange tingle until its crescendo was reached. The Horcrux came out of him, and it felt as though his blood was coming out through his hands. Every drop of life in his body leaking into the humming container in his open palm. When it reached the very last smidgeon of Voldemort's soul, the spell snapped and he slumped forward. Harry likened the feeling in the aftermath of the transfer to running fifty miles without water, for he was parched and his muscles ached terribly.

And then his arm twitched, and began to dissolve.

Harry screamed, falling to the floor heavily, hard enough to bruise his left side. He stared in horror as the ash of his destroyed tissue burst through the healed bullet hole, ready to consume his entire body. A drop of sweat traveled down his face, and he shut his eyes and gathered every bit of magic he could find. He took from his own core, from the room, from the school, and from the earth. He took and took and took until there was nothing left for him to take. Harry lay on the floor, writhing in agony, until the first rays of dawn touched the sky.


	28. Chapter Twenty Seven

**A/n****: **Ah, the end of the Voldemort arch. Are we excited? New plan though, guys. PW will be finished on the 24th of September, and I will take my break, and come back on the first _Friday of November, which is the 5__th_. Sorry, I didn't expect to not update one week. Thank you so much for all of the reviews last chapter, and I apologize for the cliffhanger! Oh, and I used bits from Half-Blood Prince (the movie) because I thought they were a bit classier than in the books. And Harry doesn't have a broom, either, ha! I hope you all enjoy this chapter as much as I did writing it!

This story is not finished yet, however, we still have three very important chapters to go. I'm not one to beg for reviews, usually, but updating is going to be super stressful what with school and work going on at the same time, so I'd appreciate a little encouragement from those that usually don't review. To all my regulars, thank you so much, I adore you.

Dedication: to Amazonia, my wonderful beta. Yes, I will thank you every chapter because I love you. So there.

A Few Responses: Ana: you're very welcome! Harry's arrogance looking good on him does make sense, lol, because I feel the same way. Draco is sure pushing it in this chapter. I hope the sequel is just as fun, though it's more of an emotional rollercoaster than an action-packed one. There will be destruction and death though, haha, gotta have that! Sarah: sorry about the cliffhanger. I like cliffhangers. And honestly, can you imagine me making Harry a pansy? He may be able to feel a bit more in the upcoming chapters and the sequel, but he's still going to be a badass. Pah-leaze. Epic battle? Not so much. Epic pwn? Fo sho.

Warnings for this chapter: CD (character death), violence, language, gore (Harry's arm: I had a really hard time writing it, it was disgusting), and plot twists.

* * *

Pistol Whipped

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Little Lord Fauntleroy wasn't moving. The frozen shock etched on the portraits face, in turn, alarmed Snape greatly. The expression itself stopped him in his tracks rather than the actuality that the magical picture was motionless, and he blinked at the empty, wide eyes, comically mirroring the boy. A cursory glance at the portrait that led to his rooms told him that the anomaly was not a singular event. Shaking himself briefly, he marched half way down the hall to stare at the old crone in his painting, who was similarly immobile. Even the snores that should have erupted from the portrait were absent. Snape cleared his throat quickly, and turned back to Fauntleroy.

This was Potter's fault.

The ridiculous boy had done something to the school, and it would likely result in his expulsion, and then where would Snape be? Removal from the school meant letting Potter out from under the eyes of those who could at least partially control him. It meant a ruckus that Snape wouldn't be prepared for. Positively furious at the boy's recklessness, he slammed his fist into the portrait twice before waiting impatiently. The portrait did not open.

Enraged, Snape pulled out his wand and brandished it hastily, shouting, "_Alohomora_!"

Little Lord Fauntleroy awoke, but only for a moment before falling still once more.  
Scowling, Snape tried again, with the same effects, and his face swiftly went red with indignation. Had he been a child, he might have thrown his wand to the ground in an aggravated tantrum. Instead, he took a calming breath that was more of a harrumph than anything, and placed his open palm on the rim of the portrait, focusing his magic into the dratted picture until the boy came alive fully. Tossing his head like a startled animal, Fauntleroy gasped as if he actually needed air and imperiously raised his chin at Snape.

"Help!" he cried. "He's taken my magic!"

"_Open_," Snape snapped crossly. Fauntleroy flailed his arms about, still yelling about Potter and his stolen magic, but obediently opened the entrance as he screeched. Snape ignored him and stepped through.

The fire had gone out in Potter's rooms, and there were various objects scattered about on the floor, including what had caught Snape's eyes first: a golden cup that shone in the light of the simulated dawn. He strode forward, a bellow on the tip of his tongue, and caught sight of Potter lying curled up beside the sofa, like a dried worm left to rot. Scoffing, Snape knelt next to the boy, his hands automatically reaching out to check Potter's pulse.

"Snape!" came a gasp, and he drew away from the boy quickly. Potter was awake, but barely, and sweat pooled on his forehead; the obvious pain he was in made his eyes a dull, tormented green. "Jesus! Fuck. Help," Potter choked.

"What's the matter with you?" Snape nearly yelled at him.

When the boy didn't answer, Snape raised his eyes to the ceiling and flipped the lackadaisical form over. The boy was cradling his arm, it seemed, and Snape roughly pulled Potter's clutching hands away to inspect whatever wound he had. He didn't expect a burst of what looked like snow to shoot from the boy's arm, and he fell on his backside in an effort to get away from it. Potter groaned.

Reaching out a hand to catch the strange flakes of white, Snape observed the mess in his hands and realized his palm was full of _ash_. He quickly brushed the offending bits off and moved towards Potter's arm again. _Or_, Snape thought, alarmed, _what's left of it_.

"Potter," he jostled the boy, not at all gently. "Potter!"

"_Fuck_," he swore sharply, bringing his knees up to his chest in an effort to get away from Snape's hands.

"What curse is this?" Snape asked hastily. "What have you done to yourself!"

"Please," Potter exhaled. "Please… need to stop it. Need more magic."

Snape sat back on his heels with a sigh. "So that's what had Fauntleroy up in arms. Have you any tact whatsoever? And what, pray tell, do you need it for?"

"To stop the curse, you _fucker_!" As Snape made to bellow a detention at him, Potter arched his spine in pain and let out a howl, startling Snape from his anger.

Resignedly, Snape took out his wand and ran it down Potter's injured arm. The wound – for now that he looked closer he could see that there was one – was a rounded gap of flesh that had turned into flakes of ash. It chipped off like shedding skin, piling up grotesquely as the middle of the hole, still pink with tissue, slowly turned to powder, though Potter was valiantly trying to stop it. The curse was eating away at the boy's flesh in a way Snape had never seen before. He gagged a bit when he touched it and parts of Potter's skin came off in one soft crumble.

"This is disgusting, Potter," he muttered, watching the sweat on the boy's brow carefully. "What should I do?"

"Just—" he coughed harshly. "I need to stop it from eating away at me," Potter explained hoarsely. "You'll need to channel your magic with mine, into the wound itself."

Snape frowned. "It looks as though the poison has spread outside of the initial injury, Potter. Halting it now would leave your arm in this state—" He was interrupted when Potter jerked badly and turned his head to stare at him, frustrated and hurting.

"We need to stop it from spreading further," he gasped out, the hand on his elbow white with the strain of clutching his wounded limb close. "You'll need to cut it off once we stop the curse from traveling."

He had been afraid Potter thought the arm was still salvageable. Pomfrey would be able to grow the arm back, if they hurried, but there was still the problem of gathering a vial of blood that was untainted by the curse. The sample would replicate a limb for Potter, but no unnatural substances could be found in the blood itself beforehand.

Snape pursed his lips and said, "You do know we cannot give you potions—"

"I know!" Potter practically shouted at him, squeezing his eyes closed. "Just fucking _help_ me, Snape!"

Very tempted to leave Potter to fend for himself, Snape scowled indignantly before he did as he was asked. He placed his hand on the wound, grimacing when his fingers touched the soft, flakey bits that used to be flesh, and channeled his magic through. Potter captured it hungrily, combining it with his own and forcing both towards his arm. Snape felt the castle, then, a strange sort of feeling that he didn't quite understand. He knew that Potter had been taking from the school reserves, but he hadn't been aware just _how much_. The very air around them shuddered, as if it were being sucked away by an invisible vacuum, and there was a high-pitched whistling in Snape's ears that rose to a climax as Potter writhed. A heavy, hot discomfort fell over him then, and the reserves grew taut as Potter struggled to gather more of its magic. When it cut Potter off, Snape noticed that, though the wound had not closed, it had ceased disintegrating.

Quickly, he levitated Potter towards the fire place, relighting it as he walked. He grabbed a pinch of Floo Powder from the mantel and shouted his destination. Poppy was already awake, puttering about the Hospital Wing and preparing morning potions for a student who looked like Colin Creevey. Snape remembered that the Gryffindor had tangled with Sprout's Draining Delphinium yesterday, and he sneered briefly before moving Potter to an empty bed. Potter was silent, but apparently still conscious, since he blinked one eye open at Snape as if to say, _what the fuck are you lagging for?  
_

Sighing, the Potions' Master waved Poppy over, telling her to close Creevey's curtains and Silence his bed. She did so, frowning down at Potter with concern, but when she leant down to inspect the wound she breathed in quickly.

"What curse is this?" she asked, sounding ill.

"Haven't the foggiest," Snape said sardonically. "We've managed to stop it from spreading, Madam, but it will need to be amputated."

Her eyes widened, but she didn't seem surprised. Wand swiftly going to work, she scanned the arm for a sample of blood unaffected by the spell. Snape watched her with a hard glare, waiting to hear whether or not Potter would survive the day. She inhaled suddenly, nodding to him, before taking her wand and making a clean incision at the top of the boy's shoulder. Potter hissed a bit, looking up at them blearily.

"You're lucky, boy," Snape told him.

"About to get my arm lobbed off, aren't I?" Potter said through gritted teeth. "Don't sound like luck to me."

"You'll get it back, Mr. Potter," Poppy reassured him, though her tone was both concerned and hesitant. "You're able to take a pain potion now, sorry to keep you hurting," she apologized with a sigh.

Snape went to the store cupboards as Poppy explained to the boy that, though the potion would help, it wouldn't keep the pain at bay completely. He heard Potter's dulcet tones waver with obvious frustration, and likely a bit of fear. Poppy didn't have time to make Potter comfortable, and, as sorry as she was for it, all of them knew it was best that Potter be awake and aware for the procedure.

From what Snape could tell, the boy could feel the curse in his arm, locate where it had spread. With him awake, he would be able to give Poppy the word if, when his arm was gone, the curse had spread any further. He grabbed up the Flesh Regrowth and Skelegrow potions, then he carefully administered the blood sample into the potion that would replicate Potter's arm. As expected, the potion turned from green to a rust color before simmering very briefly.

He took the time to congratulate himself on a well-made potion before heading back to Potter's bed with the three brews.

Clearly overwhelmed but determined, Poppy took the pain potion from Snape with a nod of thanks and tipped it into Potter's mouth. There was a sigh of relief from the boy.

"We're going to begin the amputation now, Mr. Potter—" she began.

"Just bloody do it!"

Snape rolled his eyes at the boy's brutish behavior. He placed both of his hands on Potter's shoulders, pushing down and making sure Potter couldn't rise. Poppy brought her wand down and up once, slicing the arm clean off. Potter screamed and arched upward, but Snape's strong grip had him back down in moments.

Poppy quickly grabbed up the Flesh Regrowth and the Skelegrow potions, giving them to Potter efficiently, letting both slide down his throat. When it was done, Potter's arm had stopped bleeding, and Poppy cast a quick stasis charm on the stump. Assured that there would be no infection as it grew, Poppy mopped the sweat off of Potter's forehead and frowned.

"Is there any left?" she queried, leaning down to check Potter's eyes.

The boy was breathing heavily, staring up at her with half-aware, half-drifting orbs. He choked a bit, coughing, and spat out, "It's gone. It's gone."

Reassured, though he wouldn't show it, Snape cast a sleeping charm on the boy and watched as Potter went completely limp. When he looked away, Poppy was staring not at her patient, but at the arm they had cut away. Without the magic Potter had used to block the curse, the limb had silently and swiftly turned to ash. Poppy walked over to it, her breath shuddering and her eyes wide, and she placed her hand on the table. She drew it away, turning her palm towards Snape. It was grey, the terrible grey of something living that had been burned.

Burned from the inside out.

Her hand covered in the powder was suddenly too much to look at, and Snape made to turn away. Poppy drew his attention back, however, when she whispered, "What is this? Did _magic_ do this?"

Though magic was capable of disgusting and positively inhumane things, the ash was somehow too frightening to contemplate. Snape swallowed, his eyes flashing to the peacefully sleeping Potter, before he gathered himself and gave Poppy a stilted glare.

"It may be magic," he responded, "but there's a man behind it. Or is that too ill of a thought to bear?"

Poppy said nothing to him as he walked out of the wing, but she did wonder, as she disposed of the arm and hastily wiped her hand of the evidence, why Professor Snape seemed to think Potter was to blame for the curse that had threatened to burst him into something as hollow as ash.

.o00o.

"I doubt you have any idea how lucky you are," a voice said to his left, cutting into dreams full of fire and light. Harry attempted to open his eyes, but they were heavy with exhaustion and wanted very much to remain closed. "You have no concept of gratitude, I suspect," the voice went on. "Your stupidity, at least, will prevent you from thanking me for saving your insignificant life."

Harry turned over to his left side, and there was a tenderness in his arm that didn't feel right. He grimaced, trying to remember what had happened to make it ache, and his hand rose to touch the muscles tentatively.

"It's there, Potter," Snape muttered, and Harry knew it was Snape because he could recognize that voice now. The grogginess around his mind slowly began to fade away as he cracked open an eye. "Like I said, as infernally lucky as you are, I'm not expecting you to show pertinent appreciation for your savior. I would, however, like to ask something in return for my labors."

Coughing, Harry made to sit up, shaking his head forcefully. He could recollect why he was in the Hospital Wing, now that the deep sleep he had fallen into had released him. Snape sat beside his bed, looking a bit like a black blanket thrown over a chair, and the only variation in color was in the paleness of his face. Harry processed Snape's words very slowly, and then he sighed. "What do you want?" he croaked, his throat sore.

"I want you to answer a question," Snape said. "I suspect that wound was caused by a gun. I want to know if it was one of _your _guns. And I want to know if you'll be giving those guns to the world."

Harry wiped a hand across his face. "I told you before that they were modified. The magic I put into them does cause the ash, yes."

Snape was silent, his gaze sharp and cold. "I do believe, Potter, that I owe myself a very sincere apology," he finally said, licking his lips.

Frowning, Harry reached over to his clothes and searched for his cigarettes. He found them in the front pocket of his coat, and he popped one in his mouth before bringing up his lighter. His arm felt fluid, a bit like jelly, but there was no pain and it was certainly fine, if not slightly more dexterous than before. He exhaled quickly and scratched his nose, looking at Snape again.

"What are you on about, then?" he asked, sniffing. "I've just woken up. Been in pain, too. So if you could—"

"I owe myself an apology because I didn't believe myself – the one person I can trust to give me a sense of reality when I most need it. I didn't want to realize that you, Mr. Potter, were a tyrant and a stain upon the suffering of a very unassuming world."

Harry blinked. "Did you just call me a stain?" he repeated, quite shocked.

"You are, you know," Snape said, and he seemed so utterly matter-of-fact and goddamn sincere about it that Harry felt something jolt inside of himself and begin to burn. "But what do I know?" Snape went on, emotionlessly. "You'll do what you have to so that the end can make some sort of deluded, terrible sense to you."

Snape abruptly rose from his seat, heading towards the door. "Hold on a moment!" Harry shouted at his back. "Just what _is_ the matter? You don't want me to use the guns, is that it?"

"Caught on, have you?" Snape sneered, turning around to scowl at him. "One would think that, after feeling the effects of one's own atrocious invention, one would strive to destroy the source of that agony."

Harry threw his hands up. "Do you always talk like that?" he yelled. "And, according to you, one accident with a motorcar means _one_ should never set foot in a motorcar again."

The expression of honest disgust did not leave Snape's face. He stood at the entrance of the wing, simply staring at Harry resignedly, as if there was no hope for him and he would be better served to save his words for someone who could understand and care. Harry watched him back, waiting for some form of acknowledgement that didn't have to do with the obvious repulsion Snape felt for him. He hadn't held his breath because, predictably, Snape walked out of the wing and away from him, as if giving in to the mess Harry had promised to cause.

Harry only wondered why Snape's surrender bothered him so much.

He sat back on his bed, taking a drag from his smoke and quietly exhaling. Harry glanced at his arm, a small smile worming its way onto his face. Just as Snape had said, he _had _been lucky. Very lucky.

A furious anger suddenly engulfed him. Why would Griphook allow him to do the transfer if he could so easily do it himself, as he had done with the locket and the diadem? Couldn't the goblin have saved him the trouble and transferred the cup as well? Harry tried to convince himself that it was Griphook's error that had been the cause of this mess, but, somewhere inside of him, he felt shame and guilt suddenly rear up. It had been his pride that had prevented him from seeking help before he'd sought to move the last Horcrux. Griphook had given the cup to him, for him to transfer, to teach him a well learned lesson. What was hard for Harry must have been harder for the goblin, and his move with the cup had been a reminder to Harry that he owed Griphook more than he could possibly fathom.

Conceding Griphook's point with a slight nod, Harry thought about the soul that had lived inside of him, and his face went red. Why hadn't he gone to a healer? He glanced at the new flesh and bone of his arm and scolded himself for not thinking. The only good thing to come of his misadventure was the fact that the Horcruxes were now taken care of, stowed away in container that he and Griphook (again) had so ingeniously thought of. All that was left was Nagini, and, with a bit of luck, he would be able to rest before he had his final confrontation with the Dark Lord.

There was suddenly too much to think of and too much to do. Harry laid back on his bed and breathed in deeply, taking a drag from his cigarette and watching as the smoke curled toward the ceiling. It took him a moment to realize that he felt overwhelmed, and when the reality of his emotions set in, he scoffed and turned over. A cough came from the covered bed beside him, and Harry had a second to look guiltily at his cigarette before Pomfrey descended upon him.

"No smoking in the ward!" she hollered, snatching the cigarette away and stubbing it out viciously. "Are you mad, Mr. Potter? To think it would be acceptable in a Hospital! Go to sleep! And no more smoking, do you hear me?"

Successfully cowed, Harry slid down into his bedding and mumbled, "Yes, ma'am."

.o00o.

"Ah, Poppy," the headmaster's pleasant tone echoed, gathering Harry out of his faked slumber. "How is Mr. Potter doing?"

"I'm fine!" Harry shouted from across the room, ready to leave the care of Hogwarts' overzealous nurse. He had only slept for a few hours before waking sometime around dinner. Poppy had told him he was to stay in bed and sleep, no matter his protests that he felt as fit as a fiddle, and so he had been pretending slumber for the last hour or so. Pomfrey gave him an unimpressed glare before motioning the headmaster forward. Harry sat up as he moved closer.

"Anxious to leave, are we?" Dumbledore chuckled, his bright eyes catching Harry's briefly.

"She's an excellent healer, sir," Harry admitted, rubbing his hair. "But she's over the bloody rainbow if she thinks I'll stay here another day."

Pomfrey heard his jibe, for he hadn't bothered to lower his voice, and she scoffed as she helped Colin Creevey up from his bed. The boy still had a few blue spots around his mouth and hands, but he looked healthier than he had earlier, when Harry had gotten up with the intention of leaving. "You lost an arm, Mr. Potter," she snapped at him. "It needs to set properly!"

"Ah, yes," Dumbledore said, smiling. "I'm afraid Severus was rather vague about your injury, Harry. Perhaps you could divulge what happened last night?"

Harry's eyes caught the healer and she frowned but dragged Colin forward. "Come on then, Mr. Creevey. You're to stay away from Professor Sprout's more dangerous plants from now on. I trust you've learned your lesson…" she lectured him out of the wing.

He turned back to the headmaster, who was waiting patiently as if nothing had interrupted them. "I was experimenting with a new spell. Something to dispose of Nagini and the Horcrux inside of her. It went a bit south, sir."

Dumbledore's eyes shone. "I can see that, yes, Harry. Though I am proud of your courage and your intention to do good, I must warn you not to try such a thing again," he admonished.

Harry dipped his head, shamefaced.

"At least," Dumbledore said, rather cheerfully, "not without my attendance. I dare say you would not have had to struggle so, if I had been there."

It seemed that Snape hadn't omitted the information dealing with his all-night battle to survive. It was likely, as well, that Snape had told Dumbledore about the magic Harry had taken from the school. _Bollocks_, Harry cursed to himself. He didn't need Dumbledore thinking he was too powerful to live.

"Speaking of which," Dumbledore went on, suddenly. "I'm here to ask a favor of you, Harry." He rose and journeyed over to Pomfrey, who was lingering over the empty bottles beside Creevey's vacated bed. "Poppy, do you think him well enough to leave your expert care?"

She huffed indignantly. "If you suppose so, headmaster," Poppy muttered crossly. Dumbledore smiled at her gently before turning back to him.

"Are you well enough, Harry?"

"I'm fucking glorious," he snapped, rising from his cot and gathering up his clothing. Dumbledore didn't chide him for his language, but he did turn his back courteously as he changed. Harry finished and tugged on one boot as he hopped over to the headmaster. "Let's go, then," he said impatiently.

Dumbledore chuckled and led him out of the infirmary, and Poppy shouted at them as they left. "No excessive movement, Mr. Potter!" she yelled. "I don't want to see you in here again!"

"Mean old bint," Harry cursed her, and then, in the same breath, said, "Thanks, Madam Pomfrey!"

The hospital doors closed behind them.

"Well then, Harry," Dumbledore said to him once they were alone. They began walking down the hall seemingly without a destination. "It seems I may have some information on a Horcrux."

"So Nagini isn't the last?" Harry blurted before he could stop himself.

Dumbledore glanced at him, still walking at a steady pace, before saying, "Her, or this particular Horcrux, could be the one we are searching for. If I do recall correctly, there are still three left to find."

Swearing at himself quietly, Harry moved alongside the headmaster. "May I ask, sir, where you got this information from?" he questioned boldly.

"Severus was called tonight," the old man explained. "He told me that the Dark Lord had made a recent journey, alone, and that he had heard from Bellatrix Lestrange of the destination Tom had had in mind. I was not surprised, given my knowledge of Tom's past, but Severus's words assured me a Horcrux is likely hidden where we are about to travel to this night."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Cryptic," he muttered. "How can I help?"

"I would like you to accompany me," Dumbledore said, a soft compassion on his face as he looked down at Harry. "Retrieve your Invisibility Cloak from your rooms, and bring anything else you think you may need. I will be atop the North Tower, waiting for you."

Saying nothing else, Dumbledore swept down the hall once more, leaving Harry to gape at his retreating back. He shook his head, pulling out his smokes and lighting one. Figuring Dumbledore knew what he was doing – at least a little bit, anyway – he made it to his rooms without interruption and set about gathering his things. His fingers hovered over his pistol, but he did not take it with him. Harry did not want to have to deal with Dumbledore's questions should he catch sight of it.

Harry was just about ready to leave when he saw the note on his desk. Stubbing out his cigarette, he moved toward it cautiously before bending down to read it without touching it. He didn't recognize the handwriting, but he understood the message.

_Beware those you think are trustworthy. Today will decide tomorrow.  
_

Frowning at the message, he tilted his head to the side for no real reason but to express his befuddlement. There was no signature at the bottom, no clue as to who had written him. Harry scoffed, sweeping the message to the floor before he straightened again and laughed. He was tired of cryptic warnings, tired of wizards constantly thinking him unprepared and overwrought. The missive had to have been from either Snape or Dumbledore, and he didn't care for either of them telling him how to do things.

He stood for a moment before he grabbed up his cloak and left. The walk to the tower was a long one, and he tried valiantly to forget the words on the parchment, flung to the floor and rejected. Harry wasn't quite sure why the warning had made him angry. It sounded as though someone was looking out for him, however unneeded the counsel, and he should be grateful for the message. But no one cheated in chess, did they? Their friends and enemies didn't whisper moves in their ears as they played. A game like that was best competed solo, in his opinion. And he had everything under control.

As he climbed the stairs to the tower, Harry smirked to himself and flexed his arm. Mistakes were no doubt a hard happening to bear, but Harry wouldn't make the same mistake twice.

He made it to the top of the staircase and immediately saw Dumbledore's silhouette framed against the dusk. Harry moved over to the headmaster quickly, set on getting the night over with, and looked up at the old man.

"Grab my hand, Harry," Dumbledore said softly, holding out his arm. Harry was thankful it wasn't the rotten one, and he obligingly clutched a surprisingly strong forearm. He was aware of the headmaster's ability to Apparate through the wards, and so he wasn't surprised when he felt the stretch and constriction of Apparation. He was rather shocked, however, to find them beside a cave, one that was battered mercilessly by chilling gales and a raging sea.

"This is lovely," Harry remarked wryly over the crash of the waves. "Do you holiday here frequently, sir?"

Dumbledore gave him an amused grin. "This way, Harry," he directed.

He followed the old man to the mouth of the cave, immediately feeling the pull of Dark magic as it tried to dissuade him from entering. He waved his hand as if the magic was a particularly pesky fly, and the charm broke with a snap that resonated in the boom of a high swell hitting the rocks.

"Ah," Dumbledore said, startled. "Well done, thank you," he complimented.

"There's a wall there, under a Disillusionment Charm," he felt he should point out, and then added, "Sir."

"To be granted entrance, it asks for a blood sacrifice," Dumbledore mentioned, nodding. Before Harry could respond, Dumbledore brought out a small penknife and sliced both of his palms. Harry blinked.

"Sir—"

"Your blood is far more precious than mine, Harry."

He wasn't objecting, for never in a million years would he allow his blood to be an ingredient of an unknown spell. As the charm fell, and the wall reclined back, allowing Harry to follow Dumbledore inside, he still thought the old wizard's actions rash, to say the least.

It wasn't far to the main chamber of the cave, and Harry moved beside Dumbledore to observe the lake before them. He found the boat and pulled it over, catching sight, briefly, of a face in the water.

"Inferi," he said with a small cough.

"We'd best not disturb them," Dumbledore acknowledged, climbing inside the raft. Though it wasn't a long journey to the platform in the middle of the lake, Dumbledore seemed set upon making conversation as Harry rowed.

"I have long been curious, Harry," he started quietly, but, despite his whispering, it echoed throughout the chamber. "Do you use no wand?"

Harry had to laugh, pausing briefly to prop himself up on the oar. "What a time to bring that up, sir," he said. "I've never used a wand, though I have been to Ollivander's once."

"Did you?" the headmaster frowned, likely wondering why Ollivander hadn't told him. Harry raised an eyebrow at him.

"On my first trip to Diagon, Percy needed a new wand," he explained, remembering. "I stayed behind, and Ollivander offered to fit me for one."

Dumbledore remained silent, and Harry continued rowing. "He couldn't find one for me. Not one. The reason why he didn't tell, because I assume you are both in confidence with each other, is because I _Obliviated _him."

He saw no reason to lie to Dumbledore anymore. In fact, Harry was amused as the man's face morphed from shock into slight exasperation. "How old were you when this happened?" Dumbledore asked, clearing his throat.

Harry grinned. "Too young," was all he said.

"You do know Obliviating helpless wizards is _illegal_…"

Laughing as the boat hit the rocks of the platform, Harry kept his feet and hopped up onto land.

"I doubt Ollivander was helpless, sir, being surrounded by wands and all," he chuckled while he docked. "I didn't need a wand, anyway; most of the magic I do doesn't need a channel."

Dumbledore sat for a moment, still in the boat, and stared at him. "You're full of surprises, aren't you, Harry Potter?" he croaked, sounding slightly depressed.

Harry shook his head at him. "Are we doing this or not?" he pushed.

The old man smiled once more, a gesture that slightly relieved Harry, and climbed out of the raft. He moved towards the raised bowl on the platform, stepping over the protruding stalagmites as if he were decades younger and not at all ill. "You're very like your mother," Dumbledore chatted. "She was impatient, too, and just as talented."

He skipped over a gap in the spikes and caught up to Dumbledore, smiling briefly before joining the old man beside the bowl. He looked inside and stiffened.

The locket.

But not the locket.

"You said Snape had given you the location," he said, very quietly. "Did you send me a message earlier? One that spoke of a warning?"

Dumbledore stared at him.

_Beware those you think are trustworthy.  
_

Harry turned to the headmaster, and the headmaster seemed to suddenly understand. "You have the locket," Dumbledore whispered. "The real one."

"I do," Harry told him, swallowing. "He knows I'm not loyal to him."

Someone had betrayed him.

The headmaster closed his eyes. "The school is under attack," he said, exhaling heavily.

"As you suspected," Harry said, not admonishingly. The old man _would_ believe the Death Eaters would infiltrate the school with only his death in mind. But if the Dark Lord knew of Harry's betrayal, then he would also know of the Horcruxes, and he would seek to destroy as much of the student body as possible before taking the home he thought was his back. Dumbledore be damned. Harry knew this because he knew the Dark Lord well. The school was in far more danger than the headmaster had anticipated.

They had both been played rather beautifully. _Ginny,_ he thought desperately. _Ron_.

"We have to go back." Harry motioned quickly, making for the boat.

"I am sorry, Harry," Dumbledore said from behind him. "But this must be done."

Harry frowned, turning around swiftly just as Dumbledore raised his wand and incanted, "_Nutrere magis, tultus, ventus, ignos_—"

He was lucky to have batted the spell away, and he looked at the headmaster then, fully, and absolutely furious. "This is an inconvenient time, Dumbledore, to show your _merit_," he said slowly, sharply.

Dumbledore appeared pleading. "It's only so you will not interfere with my death, my boy," he tried.

"By _collaring_ me?" Harry said through gritted teeth. "Oh, I know it will end when you're dead, but there are ways of destroying the curse that you think will kill you."

"You're too ambitious," Dumbledore said, seeming stronger now. "You're too like Him."

Dumbledore raised his wand once more, and Harry tensed. There was a creak of the raft, a disturbance in the water, and Harry felt the Inferi come to life in the shaking rocks beneath his feet.

"Leave it, old man," Harry nearly yelled at him, meeting those blue eyes challengingly. "The world isn't yours anymore."

"You will destroy it," Dumbledore breathed. "In your need for control you will end what I have

worked so hard to achieve."

The Inferi began to climb the stalagmites, hunched and putrid.

"You _have _to trust me," Harry told him, panting now as his heart beat faster. "Take my hand."

Dumbledore lowered his wand and took it. Harry Apparated them to Hogwarts.

.o00o.

They landed where they had left. Dumbledore immediately drew away from him, his wand aloft once more.

"You _must _trust me, sir," Harry said again quickly, raising his hands. "My ambitions are very different from Tom Riddle's."

"I do not doubt that that it is so," Dumbledore commented tiredly. "But your love for murder, for destruction…I cannot, in good conscience, leave you free to do with the world as you will."

"You will have to," he snapped back, taking a step away. "I made a promise to you, Dumbledore. Doesn't that mean anything?"

"You have never bound yourself to magic," the old man returned, his eyes narrowed. "Your soul bears no tie."

Harry had already suspected that Dumbledore could see through the Vow he had cast, so he was honestly more peeved that the man had chosen to come out with it now.

"It does not," he agreed with a nod. "You know I'm not loyal to Him, though."

Dumbledore looked so very downtrodden and weak in that moment that Harry found he pitied him. "You are loyal to yourself, and, I confess, that frightens me more than any obedience to the Dark Lord ever could," the headmaster confessed.

Harry heard the slam of a door, a rush of footsteps.

"Ah," Dumbledore said, hearing it too and raising his wand at Harry, but he had already flung his Invisibility Cloak over his body. As Dumbledore stood there in slight shock, Draco burst through the door and careened to a sudden halt in front of the headmaster.

"_Expelliarmus_!"

The Elder Wand flew out of Dumbledore's gnarled fingers and hit the ramparts with a snap. Draco emerged from the shadows as Harry sunk deeper into them.

"Good evening, Draco," Dumbledore said kindly. Draco remained silent. "I trust it was the Dark Lord who arranged this? Or are you acting alone?"

Harry was proud of Draco for biting his tongue. Dumbledore seemed eager to press for information, though, but before the old man could say anything more, the door burst open again.

Snape, Bellatrix Lestrange, and two Death Eaters Harry hadn't bothered to get to know flew into sight with their wands raised.

"Dumbledore cornered!" giggled the plump man among them. "Dumbledore wandless! Dumbledore alone! Well done, Draco, well done!"

"Good evening, Amycus," said Dumbledore calmly, as though welcoming the man to a tea party. "And you've brought Alecto too. Charming.…"

The woman gave an angry little titter. "Think your little jokes will help you on your deathbed, then?" she jeered.

"Jokes? No, no. These are manners," replied Dumbledore.

"Do it," said Snape, very suddenly. Draco hesitated for a moment, licking his lips.

"Where's Potter?" he asked, glaring at Dumbledore steadily. "I want him here," Draco said. "I want him here to see this."

The headmaster fidgeted a bit. "I'm afraid I'm entirely unaware of where Mr. Potter is at the moment," he revealed, appearing quite calm.

"What does it matter, Draco?" Lestrange sneered, leaning close to Draco's ear. "Do it. Kill him."

Draco ignored her. "It was me, you know," the boy said softly. "I told the Dark Lord what Potter was up to. That stupid Bind was so easy to get around. Trust Potter to trust it. I wanted him to be here. To watch him grow humble in the face of my betrayal."

Dumbledore frowned. "It doesn't have to be this way, Draco," he responded, seemingly undisturbed by the boy's confession. "You're not a killer—"

"Do it!" Bellatrix shouted. "Do it now, Draco!"

Snape stepped forward then, blocking Draco's wand. Dumbledore's eyes met Harry's briefly, his gaze filled with what looked to be sadness and empathy, before he turned his face to his most trusted Professor and said, imploringly, "Severus, _please_."

"_Ava_—"

"No!" Draco suddenly shouted. "I'll do it!"

Bellatrix grinned madly, and Snape seemed so very surprised that it only made Draco smugger. He smirked at them before brandishing his wand and howling, "_Avada Kedavra_!"

The green light emerged from his wand, so fast that Dumbledore could do very little to get away, if he had wanted to try at all. Harry watched as the old man crumbled even before the curse hit. It collided with Dumbledore quickly, throwing him over the edge of the rampart and down to the grounds below. Harry raised his eyebrows and turned back to the group of Death Eaters before him.

"Well done!" Bellatrix cackled. "Oh, well done, Draco!"

Before any of them could continue their congratulations, a boom rocked the tower, briefly shaking the fortification. Snape strode over to the door, looking down at the staircase.

"The Aurors have shown up," he said without panic. "We must go."

They headed out, patting Draco on the back as they went, but Lestrange stopped and ran over to the edge of the rampart, throwing up her wand to the sky. "_Morsmordre_!"

The Dark Mark glowed in the darkness of the night as the Death Eaters fled. From atop the tower, Harry leaned over the side of the parapet and watched the dark figures run across the grounds and back to their master. He gave the prone body of Dumbledore, who he could see just barely in the obscurity, a last, thoughtful glance, before he pivoted and ran in the same direction the Death Eaters had taken.

.o00o.

The Burrow was just as Harry remembered it. The lights were on, no doubt for Molly to continue her work in the kitchen, perhaps making a late dinner for Arthur. Harry strode up to the house calmly, his eyes on the door that he had once knocked upon without hoping for any warm welcome. He felt old then, and, though he was only nearing seventeen, the winters he had spent with the Weasleys seemed so very long ago. He was happy to smell the cinnamon and peppermint, the beef stew Molly seemed to be making, and the odd grassy aroma that permeated through the house from the wild courtyard. He raised his hand and knocked twice.

Molly opened the door.

"Chrissie!" she exclaimed, clasping him close without warning. "Oh, how are you? I suppose I have to call you Harry now, don't I? How are you?"

"Still Chris, ma'am," he reassured her, smiling.

"Arthur!" she called. "Chrissie's here! Come in, dear. Come in."

Harry went through to the kitchen where Arthur, still in his Ministry robes, was digging into his late night meal, looking knackered.

"Are you hungry, dear?" Molly offered, grinning from ear to ear. "I've just made stew for Arthur. He's very busy at the Ministry, of course."

"No, thank you, ma'am," Harry declined, nodding to her husband. "I'm afraid I'm not here to visit."

Molly froze at the stove, her hand on the plate she had brought down from the cupboard for him, the look on her face open with anxiety and fear.

"It's not one of your own," Harry reassured her quickly, and she seemed to breathe then, but the worry did not leave her eyes.

Arthur had abandoned his meal entirely. "What is it, Chris?"

"Dumbledore's dead," Harry told them without delay. Molly's gasp did not prevent him from continuing. "Draco Malfoy has killed him," he said, looking at Arthur.

Sitting down heavily, Molly shifted her face in shock. "At the school?" she asked, her voice riddled with restrained panic. "The Order would have known—"

"There were Aurors at the bottom of the staircase, where Dumbledore fell, but I'm not sure if the Order was there, too, or what happened after," Harry confessed gently. As if summoned, Professor McGonagall's voice came from the fireplace.

"Molly? Arthur?"

Mrs. Weasley ran towards the fire, her hand on the mantel, and Arthur moved quickly to stand beside her. Harry bit his lip and waited, out of sight, by the table.

"Oh, good," McGonagall said. "I would have contacted you, Molly, but I had little time to even gather the members at Grimmauld Place." She paused there, as if reluctant to go on despite her being the one to Floo the Weasleys. "Molly, Dumbledore's dead, and Harry Potter is missing."

Mrs. Weasley made to speak, but McGonagall beat her to it. "Bill, Molly," she hesitantly said. "He's been attacked…"

Harry dragged a chair over for Molly to fall into, moving forward to take her place in front of the fire. "Is Bill alright?" he questioned nervously.

"Potter!" McGonagall said, alarmed. "Do you have any idea how worried we've been?"

"Is Bill alright?" he asked again, and Professor McGonagall's lips tightened into a straight line, but she seemed to give in.

"He will be fine," she told them. "I'll expect you in the Infirmary soon, then? I've opened your Floo to the Hospital Wing."

Molly sniffled, on the verge of tears. "You're sure he's alright?" she queried worriedly.

"He'll be fine, Molly, but, well… you'll see for yourself, I suppose."

Arthur wrapped an arm around his wife as she dissolved into tears. "Potter," McGonagall addressed him suddenly. "Will you be returning to the school? I have no idea what could've gone through your thick head to make you go there. Visiting the Weasleys, tonight of all times, and while the school is under attack, no less! We—"

"No," Harry cut her off. "I won't be back until later."

"Of all the preposterous notions... Fine, you do what _you_ _think_ is _best_, Potter," she scoffed at him.

Relieved that Bill was at least alive, Harry turned to Arthur Weasley as McGonagall and Molly talked briefly in low tones. The Professor disappeared into the green flames of the Floo once more, and Molly grabbed up her cloak, rubbing at her red eyes.

Harry observed Arthur carefully. "Do you still have the pistol?" he asked.

"I…" Mr. Weasley gulped audibly. "Yes, but Chris—"

Harry grabbed his arm. "It's very important. Please, Mr. Weasley," he begged. Arthur frowned, but nodded and shook himself off before he went to retrieve the gun. Harry gazed at Molly concernedly.

"I'll need to contact Phlegm… Fleur, I mean," Molly choked, putting a hand on her stomach to calm her sobs. "Oh, this is a catastrophe. Dumbledore dead, B-Bill hurt." She gasped but held back her crying.

Harry moved to her and hugged her close. "It will be over soon, ma'am. I promise," he comforted, believing that it would be over, that his family would finally be safe. He would have to believe it for it to be so.

Arthur came back in that moment, handing back the pistol Harry had given Mr. Weasley so long ago. Harry's first gun, acquired through murder, soft in his hand like something long forgotten but no less loved. He weighed the pistol, the twin to Denny's original .45, and smiled very fleetingly.

"What?" Molly said, staring at the gun and then at him. "What do you mean to do?" she demanded, her voice rising. "What do you mean by it?"

Looking at them both, Harry inclined his head and then met their eyes. "I mean to end this tonight," he admitted, and then made for the door.

"Chrissie! Chrissie, no!" Molly shouted at his back, moving swiftly to catch his arm. "If you mean to—"

"I do," he interrupted her, clutching the pistol close. Arthur sidled up beside Molly and simply stared. Harry looked at the woman he thought of as a mother and kissed her quickly on the cheek. "Your family will be safe after this," he murmured to her. "I promise. I really do promise."

She made to hold onto him tighter as he turned around, but Arthur pulled her hand away. "No," Mrs. Weasley sobbed. "You can't let him, Arthur! You can't!"

Mr. Weasley stared at Harry for a moment. "You know what you're doing?" he asked, the phrase sounding like a question and a statement all at once. It showed both his confidence in Harry to do as he said he would and an anxiety about his safety.

Harry nodded back and grinned a bit. He left then, hearing Arthur's short "Be careful!" before the door closed shut. Harry took a breath, Apparated to Malfoy Manor, and exhaled only when his feet touched the ground.

.o00o.

Bellatrix skipped into the house, grasping Draco to her bosom briefly before resuming her vociferous journey to the long dining room where the Dark Lord waited. Fenrir Greyback patted him on the arm, grinning sickeningly at him as he followed an enthusiastic Lestrange down the hall. Draco waited until the Death Eaters had passed and turned to look at Snape, who seemed pale and drawn in the dim light of the parlor. "Did you not think I could do it, Severus?" Draco asked, smiling, though it was visibly strained.

Snape seemed to notice him then, as if Draco had been a shadow he never quite saw, and he swallowed before saying, "I had every faith in you that you would certainly try."

When the man moved forward, Draco grimaced at his back and marched through the hall. After his actions during the last few days, Draco had assured his family's name a spot in the legacy of the greatest wizard of all time. He had disposed of Dumbledore, revealed a traitor, and, not only had he saved his own life, but his mother's and father's lives were now safe as well. Draco wanted to make his grand entrance into the room, the Elder Wand safe in his pocket and his glorious future at his fingertips.

That is, until he was disarmed and _Stupefied_ from behind, and he found himself looking up at Harry Potter's radiant grin.

.o00o.

"Where is Draco?" Voldemort demanded, really quite pleased with the boy.

His Death Eaters had accomplished their task magnificently, with the Malfoy boy, most surprisingly, coming out on top. The bitterness he felt over Potter's betrayal was small compared to the triumph of destroying Dumbledore. He was furious, of course, that his Horcruxes had been gathered for ill-intent. Luckily, Potter knew of the Horcrux inside of him, and the boy didn't seem like one for suicide, since Potter _would _have to die to defeat him.

Nagini was still the carrier of one, however, and he assumed Potter had not gotten very far in destroying his souls before Draco's betrayal had become known. He would simply have to kill the boy and be done with the whole mess, prophecy and all. It was quite a pity, though, for Potter was certainly one of a kind.

"I'm afraid Draco is rather busy at the moment."

Voldemort might have murmured 'speak of the devil' if he hadn't been so angry. He did not wish to see the boy so soon after learning of his treachery, not while the joy of Dumbledore's death or the lingering lust he still felt threatened to burst out of him. His Death Eaters had immediately converged around him and raised their wands at the intruder.

"Hold," he told them, and it came out as more of a hiss than anything. "You dare show your face here?"

"I had to, didn't I?" Potter asked, strolling into the dining hall, aiming a slightly chiding glare at the Death Eaters. "You were going to make another Horcrux soon, I take it."

"Have you forgotten that a piece of my soul is inside of you, Potter?" Voldemort bit out, positively irate. "You will die in this endeavor, and I am sure you have not discovered all of my Horcruxes yet, boy. You've been outplayed."

Potter had the nerve to laugh, and it was a sound that resonated through the Dark Lord like something sickly sweet. "Me, the diadem, the cup, the locket, the ring, the diary," Potter listed them; then he suddenly cast the Death Eaters blocking him from Voldemort out of the way with a sweep of his hand. "And Nagini," he hissed.

The scorched remains of his beloved snake dropped to the floor in a disgusting mess. The scent of burned flesh filtered through the hall as a precursor to the aroma of decay. A spot of flesh that had melted like jelly marked the wound where Potter had likely dumped a vial of venom into her, where a soul would be if snakes had a chest to hold a heart. Voldemort howled furiously, rising from his seat and lifting his wand. His red eyes found the weapon in Potter's left hand.

"The Elder Wand," he said breathlessly, his mouth turned up in a sneer.

Potter only nodded. "The Hallows are mine now, yes," he bluffed, leveling his penetrating and utterly self-assured gaze onto the Dark Lord. "And your souls. You've no more left but the one in your body."

He took out the pistol. "You know, now, of course, that I have no need for the Elder Wand," he said, pulling out the container next. "I have been collecting your Horcruxes for months now, but I did not destroy them. It is amazing what magic can do with enough power behind it, don't you think?"

He put the container into the gun. He cocked it.

"Do you honestly think you will destroy me with that Muggle weapon?" Voldemort yelled, amused and angry at Potter's game.

"This isn't just any old Muggle weapon," Potter said, holding the pistol securely. "This is a pistol. And not just any old pistol either. You see, I am rather talented at crafting firearms. I'm quite well-known for it, even. This particular one is very special."

He paused and watched as the Dark Lord eyed his weapon. "Do you know anything about guns, my Lord?" he asked curiously. When Voldemort remained silent, he had his answer. "No? Well then, perhaps I'll give you the crash course. Guns are a Muggle's greatest weapon. So much power in this bit of metal and plastic." He clucked his tongue and ran a hand down the slide before addressing the Dark Lord once more. "The most powerful part of a gun, however, is the bullet. It's what hits you, after all.

"It's amazing, magic's ability to allow for such arcane storage spaces. Goblin metal helps, too, and, of course, Basilisk venom. You see, your Horcruxes are inside this bullet. The part you bestowed so graciously upon me? It's in here, too. Every piece of your wayward soul is contained in this one _small, little round_.

"All that's left is to set the explosion off. When that happens, highly potent venom, from the primer, will travel into the hollow chamber of the bullet, destroying the pieces of your soul and, therefore, rendering you mortal. Now, if you have a good memory, you'll recall that I told you the bullet is the most powerful part of a gun. So when it hits you, you'll be dead."

He aimed straight. "All I have to do is shoot," he said.

Voldemort tossed a spell at him, angry enough to make the curse fly fast and whistle threateningly until it collided with a hasty shield Potter had put up just in time. He tried another curse, and another, but the boy remained on the defensive, still holding the gun high, aimed at Voldemort's chest.

Desperation settled on the Dark Lord, then, and Potter seemed to sense it, because he smiled.

"As a team," Voldemort said slowly, "we could be great, you know."

"I'm too selfish to accept," Harry told him, and there was a sad sort of look in his eyes. "And we're at the end of a world, you and me. I am too impatient with any who contest my ideals. We wouldn't last."

"We're so alike," the Dark Lord protested, but he raised his wand higher. "I don't want to kill you, Potter."

Harry tilted his head to the side, grinning, and his expression was one that said the Dark Lord had reached a finish to everything, an end of a singular reality and a divided heart. He shot, straight and true, just as Voldemort reared and cast, fire billowing from the end of his wand. His shield held, and he could see through the visible wave of heat as the bullet collided with Voldemort so quickly that the Dark Lord's body was tossed back into his throne-like chair. Blood, hot and thick, blossomed from the wound.

And then there was screaming.

Torturous howling rose up as the souls were destroyed when the bullet exploded, and the remaining piece of the Dark Lord was pierced with the harsh poisonous combination of venom and metal. It seemed as if a tremor shook Voldemort's body, but Harry knew it was only his skeleton coming to pieces, disintegrating as the matter that held the Dark Lord together pulled apart and incinerated, leaving behind ash and the echo of his last breath.

Harry heard Bellatrix's scream of rage and turned to meet the onslaught of the remaining Death Eaters just as the wards blared – telling of the arrival of the Ministry, he was sure. He had counted upon Mr. Weasley to understand an order that wasn't spoken. Harry reloaded his pistol and smiled softly in victory, and looked out at the crowd of panicked and distressed Death Eaters with a green challenge in his eyes.

_Today will decide tomorrow.  
_


	29. Chapter Twenty Eight

A/n**: **I know, I know, I'm sorry I'm late. I just...had an issue with bees and cosmopolitans. Don't ask. The first part of this chapter is two weeks after the Dark Lord is defeated, the second segment is twenty-four hours after the fact. I went all artsy on this one, _sigh_, again. Not much else to say, besides thank you to everyone that reviewed the last chapter! They were wonderful reviews. I adored them. Oh, yeah, _scuddy running_, is what my grandpa does every morning. As a child, I had the unfortunate pleasure of seeing him in action.

Dedication: to my one and only, Amazonia. She's constantly making my world better. Also, to wizard robe girl. I didn't call the cops, you lingering psycho. To Act V as well, because his/her review was pretty much the highlight of my week.

A Few Responses: Sarah: I know you're confused, but it will get better. I think. Wasn't it crazy though? :) Ana: Happy belated Birthday! You guys always tell me after the fact. I would have given you an earlier shout-out. Glad you enjoyed the chapter ;) Hope your b-day was fun! ACT V: I can't tell you how much I enjoyed your review. I've now relocated, in case you actually do want to ahem me, but I adored the sentiment all the same. I hope, I really really hope, that this fic turns out all that and a bag of chips so that you're not disappointed with it, or me. Thank you so much for the wonderful review.

Warnings for this chapter: language, plot twists, plot-pusher chapter, not much happening. Life.

* * *

Pistol Whipped

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The letter was official only according to the wax seal stamped across the envelope, and, of course, the various titles beneath the Minister's name. Harry paid little attention to them, being predominantly intrigued by the message itself, though he did scoff a bit at Scrimgeour's scribbled signature. The man was near intolerable, even in writing. Harry placed the letter down carefully, minding the saucer of tea he had spilt earlier when he had jumped up to calm the owl that had flopped about the room heedlessly.

The the message required no response; rather, it seemed to assume his attendance to the ceremony was a given, and Harry thought about the advantages of a kitschy appearance. He could do without going and not having to be falsely modest all night, which, while it might serve to frustrate Scrimgeour and appease the public, would annoy the hell out of him in the process. The Order of Merlin, First Class, after all, was no participation ribbon.

Harry was now the talk of the Wizarding World. The swift and conclusive defeat of the Dark Lord had many in awe of the Boy-Who-Lived; the one who had, upon feeling the devastation of Albus Dumbledore's death, run out to face the Dark Lord in order to avenge the kindly old man's terrible murder. Many respected Harry, but those who were clever feared him. And, though Harry was pleased that, even weeks after the Dark Lord's defeat, the veneration had not faded, he found the attention tedious and flighty, as the opinion of masses always seemed to be. He only had to weather the storm of the press and this award ceremony in order to begin to fade as a legend, finally enabling an environment suited for his subtle machinations, one without distractions. It only took time and patience, and Harry had both.

.o00o.

"Is he here, Den?"

Denny stuffed the rest of a pasty into his mouth and turned, chomping quickly before swallowing. He had presumably forgotten to breathe during that time, and Henry waited bemusedly (and a bit disgustedly) as his father caught his breath.

"What lovely manners, dear," Henry commented sarcastically.

Denny ignored that with a wave of his hand and said, "Yeah, put him up in the guest room."

Henry's nose finally caught the scent of the freshly baked pasties, and he went for them quickly, taking one off the still-hot pan. "Mary make these?" he asked, taking a bite.

"Trying out a bit of the good stuff," Denny told him, eying the meaty Oggin in Henry's hands with a look of yearning that he had likely mastered in his childhood. Henry sat down at the table and swung an arm around his food, covering it from Denny's glare.

"John's crabby about him appearing out of nowhere in the sitting room. Says you ought to mind your manners, if you had any to mind."

Henry huffed and finished the last bite of his pasty, licking his thumb. "Well, who's to blame for that, dad?" he retorted.

"Oh, he thinks I'm a bad father, you berk. Finds fault with everything I do, come to think of it." Denny got up and finished his tea while standing. "Don't talk with your mouth full, neither," he said, putting the cup and saucer into the sink.

Waving him away, Henry grunted at him rudely. "Don't go making up for lost time," he said without malice. "John probably doesn't appreciate his daughters seeing you scuddy running every morning," he mentioned, brushing the crumbs off of his shirt.

"Slag," Denny cussed at him without anger. "You want to see our prisoner, then?"

"Eh? Prisoner? That's no way to refer to guests," Henry teased, but he followed his father up the stairs.

"He's all tied up, Henry. I hope you don't treat all your mates like that."

"He's still tied?" Henry asked, turning on the stairs to glare at him, quite aghast. "_Denny_! Did you even feed him?"

Denny scowled. "What for? He was arse-about-face when he got here, and you didn't leave a note on him that said 'fragile, please feed.' What did you _want _me to do?"

Giving in, because he knew arguing with Denny was a lost cause, Henry merely rolled his eyes and clambered up the rest of the staircase, hearing his father muttering behind him. Henry easily deactivated the wards on the room and swung the door open. The issue didn't seem to matter much, now, because Draco had gotten out of the ropes anyway. That only let him find, probably maddeningly, that the magic around the room wouldn't allow him to leave.

"Potter!" Draco spat the moment Henry entered. "If I had a wand!"

"Yeah, well, you don't," he countered idly, watching as Denny closed the doors with a disgruntled frown. He turned to Draco, shoving his hands into his pockets casually. "And if you did, I doubt you would manage getting out with me standing here."

"I've killed Dumbledore, Potter!" Draco hissed. "_I _did it, without your help or Snape's!"

Henry nodded shortly in response. "Yes, yes," he muttered, waving his hand to summon three comfortable chairs. "Well done," he congratulated mockingly. "Now have a seat."

Though Draco was infuriated, he didn't hesitate to obey the trivial order. Henry crossed his legs neatly and glanced up at Denny, who had remained standing with a skeptical look at the magic his son had just done.

"Don't be a tit, Den," he admonished, motioning to the other chair. His father scowled but sat tentatively on the summoned chair. Henry twined his fingers together, pleased.

"Well then! Introductions," he began. "Draco, this is Denny Brooks, my father in all but blood. Denny, this is Draco Malfoy, a very talented wizard, a student up at the magic school."

"You must be _so proud_," Draco snapped at Denny, glaring at him with a courage born from stupidity.

It was the tone and the obvious challenge in Draco's eyes that made Denny stare at the Malfoy boy with open hostility. It had been a long while since Henry had seen that particular look on his father's face, and he watched fondly as Denny's glare made Draco flinch a bit and squirm.

"I am that," Denny growled at the boy, and, without taking his eyes off of Draco, he addressed Henry. "You'd best muzzle this ponce, Hen. I'm likely to shoot him."

Draco mouthed something like 'filthy Muggle,' and Henry felt the need to lean forward and clear his throat, bringing the attention back to him. "I'd watch your mouth, Draco Malfoy," he said with perfect calm. "Killing one man doesn't make you invincible. If it did, Denny would have stopped at one. _I _would have stopped at one."

Draco scoffed and shook his head.

"And, if I find you particularly obnoxious, I'll have no choice but to dispose of you."

"You're going to kill me anyway," Draco said, seeming rather smug, as if, even in death, he would still be triumphant. "The Malfoy name has its reputation back, and the Dark Lord never forgets."

Henry smiled. "Well, I'm sure the after-life provides a more thorough memory to reflect upon one's life. Or, if hell is where he is, and there is no paradise, then I imagine the last thing on his mind will be how well you've done, and for nothing."

It took a moment for Draco to understand what he was saying, but, when he did, he abruptly shut his gaping mouth as his eyes flashed with despair.

Henry lit a cigarette. "I have to applaud you somewhat, however. It was ingenious, Draco, to have Blaise in his Animagus form inside your pocket," he said, pointing his smoke at him. "To bring Blaise's memory of my confessions to betray me, and all without disturbing the Bind. Very clever. What was his form?"

"A mouse." Draco scowled in a pained sort of way. "You knew he was there all along, didn't you?" the blond asked, dipping his head and starting to breathe rather heavily.

Nodding sharply, Henry exhaled and maintained his indifferent expression. "You should know, though," he told Draco, softly, "that there was never a Bind to get around in the first place."

Draco deflated then, all of the confidence that had once kept him going burst out of him as if he were a pretty red balloon that had just been popped. Denny shifted in his seat, and Henry could tell he was amused.

"Why?" Draco whispered, a broken look on his face. "Why would you fake it?"

Henry thought about the question briefly, bringing up his cigarette and smoking it slowly. "Death through a curse is so impersonal," he said philosophically, gazing off at nothing. "I wanted to see if you would betray me. If you did, I planned to have you tortured for a considerable amount of time, and then, perhaps, after years of servitude and abject humiliation, I would finally grant you the gift of death."

His indolent tone of voice, expressing the uncaring cruelty of who Henry truly was, had Draco spooked something awful. Denny laughed outright.

Shooting a grin at his father, he waited for Denny's chuckles to die down before he continued. "But I've changed my mind. In the good humor of victory, my feelings are different than they were before, you see. I find you far more useful living, and undamaged."

"I'm not one of your lackeys, Potter," Draco bit out heatedly. "You don't have power over me."

Henry shook his head and stubbed out his smoke. "No, I don't imagine that anyone has the power to control you, Draco," he agreed somewhat contemptuously. "But the war has ended, and there are now the heroes and the villains. You, my love, are wanted for the death of Albus Dumbledore." He leaned forward, wetting his lips. "They mean to give you The Kiss."

"You…" Draco rose out of his seat, and Denny moved in a flash, pointing his Desert Eagle at Draco's forehead.

"I _wouldn't_, lad," Denny said, and the stone cold indifference-through-mockery that he had taught Henry was suddenly more frightening on his father's incensed face. "Sit back down," he told Draco, flicking the barrel towards the chair. "Won't you?"

Draco sat, and Denny did as well, but he kept the gun in sight. When some semblance of courage leaked into Draco's heart, courage full of anger and fear, he croaked, "I won't be your minion, Potter."

Henry tilted his head curiously. "What choice do you have? I plan to provide you with shelter from the law. You will be taken care of, and, should you feel the need to get your hands dirty out of monotony, or to shake the plight of indifference, I would not be adverse—" he stopped there suddenly and frowned. "I'll be frank with you. There are no choices anymore, Draco. I plan to destroy the endowment of will entirely. You, however, have the advantage of the choice of life or death, and I will concede to either, should you ask."

Draco was silent for a long time, but when he spoke, he refused to acknowledge Henry's offer. "What have you done to Blaise?" he demanded.

Smiling, Henry rolled his shoulders to get the ache out of them. "Blaise is safe at home, with his very-much-alive Uncle Augie, under a real Bind to keep his mouth shut. He has already consented to the options I have given him and is now rather peacefully enjoying his summer holiday."

"I don't believe you."

"You'll see him soon, I should think," Henry said, shrugging in response. "I've asked him to visit."

"What about my parents?" Draco growled quickly, sweat beading on his brow. "I know you probably killed the other Death Eaters, you _blood-thirsty _bastard. But what about my parents?"

Denny raised his gun. "I don't like him."

Henry glared. "I don't like him much right now, either, Den." He sniffed lightly. "Your parents are awaiting their trial. I do believe Lucius is in St. Mungos at present, and so the judging is delayed until he is healthy enough to be Kissed."

Draco paled. "I want my parents pardoned," he snapped.

"Mate thinks he can bargain!" Denny laughed, turning to stare at his son, amused. "He's got guts, hasn't he?"

"Then I choose death," Draco blurted out unthinkingly.

Henry gave him a long, cold look. "Unwise. Though if I hadn't any doubt you wanted it, I would oblige," he rejected, getting up. "Rest. Eat." He waved a hand, summoning the rest of the pasties from downstairs and a cup of tea, ignoring Denny's groan of displeasure. He turned and motioned his father forward, watching as Denny strutted out of the room rather quickly. Henry stopped at the door and looked back at Draco carefully.

"I like the people I sleep with," he said hesitantly. "It wasn't just about your loyalty."

Draco was silent, staring at him with a closed expression.

"I don't want you to die, really," Henry confessed, running a hand through his hair. He shook away a thought and glanced at Draco shortly. "Just think about it," he said.

Henry left the blond to his meal with a heavy heart that he couldn't explain, and he closed his eyes briefly as the door shut. He thought, then, that no matter how sincere he was with Draco, it was unlikely the boy would believe him. He wondered why he felt guilty that that was so.

.o00o.

"It is completely out of the question!"

Harry huffed. "Yes, you've said that," he said, scuffing his boots against the dungeon floor impatiently. "But you haven't told me why."

"I need not give you any explanation, Potter," Snape told him, seeming so irked that Harry had to hold back a laugh. "You are under the impression that your defeat of the Dark Lord grants you anything you desire. I won't add to your delusions."

"I might be deluded, yeah," Harry retorted as casually as possible. "Would you rather, Severus, that I take a Ministry position I didn't earn?"

"I don't care what you do," the man snapped, carefully stirring the cauldron he had on an open fire. To Harry, who glanced at it doubtfully for a moment, it smelled a bit like mushrooms and vomit. "It doesn't matter to me whether you are a legitimate member of Wizarding society or not. In fact, I suggest you become a hermit, so you can no longer cause a fracas amidst the general public."

When Snape realized Harry wasn't listening to him, he turned to stare at the boy. Harry was gazing rather nervously at the cauldron for reasons Snape didn't want to even attempt to discern, but when the boy noticed his glare, he smiled prettily and backed away from the work table. Severus scoffed.

"You sort of owe me," Harry continued, watching Snape bristle. "I didn't kill you, Severus, for leaving that ridiculous message in my rooms, _and_ I cleared your name," he pointed out.

The potions master scowled furiously. "If I had known you would not cease your incessant bothering, I would have wished for death, you intolerable horror."

Harry grinned. "That's a new one," he complimented the insult.

"I also consider myself relieved of owing you anything, considering I saved you from imminent death when you managed to curse your arm off. I'd say my debts are negated, don't you think? And you can no longer blackmail me. I won't allow it."

Though he could likely pester Snape for hours until he gave in, Harry knew that, for the moment, he had lost this particular argument. He had not expected Snape to agree in the first place, but had gone to him with the hope that the man would at least be curious about his proposition. Snape knew Harry needed a good cover, but likely thought the boy a disaster of a student, unable to handle the workload and unwilling to try.

As the deputy Headmaster (since Dumbledore's death and Snape's amnesty by the Ministry) his vote counted as much as McGonagall's (who had both an unsubstantiated soft spot for Harry and a love for education). Snape, obviously, did not admire knowledge so much that he would willingly take Harry on and attempt to get him through his O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s. There was only one thing for it, Harry knew. He would have to bargain.

"Perhaps something in return, Severus," he hedged, giving the man a slow smile as he moved a bit closer.

"Stop that," Snape warned him with a sneer. "You have nothing I could possibly want. Not even favors of the sexual kind, if that's not too much for your inflated vanity to believe."

Harry dropped the smile and downright pouted. "Something else, then?" he asked.

"No."

"Oh, _come on_," he whined, tearing at his lip with his teeth. Snape wasn't facing him, so Harry edged into his space. "There must be something! Please, Severus. Please?"

"No."

Turning on his heel with a muttered 'fucking piker,' he made his way towards the door, and, just as he suspected, Snape's voice stopped him before he could leave. "Perhaps there is _one_ thing…"

"I _knew_ you were going to do that," Harry said charily, glowering. "Always dramatic," he added with a shake of his head.

"What I ask has little to do with how pulchritudinous you think you are, so you can forget offering your body."

"Did you just say pulchritudinous?" Harry demanded to know, rather alarmed.

Snape sighed, turning away from his cauldron to glare at Harry with his arms crossed over his chest. "Yes, Potter. Pulchritudinous," he repeated, raising his eyes to the ceiling as if it would help him in some way. "Adjective. Meaning one who is possessed with physical beauty, and, in your case, an outrageous case of stupidity."

"I know what it fucking means!" Harry snapped, annoyed. "You're just a pillock for saying it."

Snape ignored him. "For teaching you potions, so that you may attempt to pass your Wizarding levels, and, eventually, your N.E.W.T.s, and without the promise of success, mind you—"

Harry groaned. "Oh, get on with it," he said impatiently.

"You will grant me a salary of fifty Galleons a week, the assurance that you will replace every cauldron you destroy and every material you waste, and, should I ask you to find and collect a perhaps atypical ingredient, whether safe or hazardous, you will do so without complaint."

Gaping at him, Harry said nothing, and Snape's lips slowly developed a smug grin of triumph, assuming, in all probability, that Harry could not afford his stipulations, and so he had rid himself of the boy. The expression didn't last long because Harry suddenly broke out into animated laughter. "You want…" he choked. "You want _money_?"

"What, pray tell, is so funny?" Snape growled, staring at Harry as if he were something particularly disgusting.

Harry had to hold his stomach, which had started to burn as his laughter escalated. "I never would have thought," he said once he had sobered a bit. "I never would have thought that your vice would be gold!"

"Research costs, Potter, as does my time. If I am to give up my peace and sanity for your sake, I want payment for it."

That did not deplete Harry's amusement in any way. "You _do know _I have a considerable amount of money thanks to my blood? That my endeavors over the years have paid well? That my guns are now the most lucrative business in the western world?"

"Yes, yes," Severus barked, significantly vexed. "You're richer than the Queen, Potter, I understand."

Harry gathered himself quickly, but his smile remained as he held out a hand. Snape stared at it guardedly. "We have a deal," he said to the unmoving Snape.

Rather than shaking his hand, Snape turned back to his simmering cauldron, which was now emitting strange swirls of smoke. Cursing his inattention, Snape said to Harry, "Leave, Potter. Term starts September first. I have no need to see you until then."

Grinning, Harry accepted the dismissal and began to walk out, but he couldn't help himself as he stopped and said cheerfully, "So, you don't want to shag any time soon? I can come back…"

"_Out_!"

He laughed all the way out of the dungeons.

.o00o.

Harry received a letter from Mrs. Weasley a week after the Dark Lord's defeat. In that time, Harry found himself busy with the Slytherins he had tentatively made allies with before the war had ended. There was little progress with Draco, who had kept his silence and took to sulking around in his room at Tyler Manor. Severus had been easy enough to acquire, and Harry never got tired of hassling the man whenever he could.

Blaise and his uncle were another story altogether. Understanding the vitality of siding with Harry quickly, Blaise had extended a hand of friendship, just as Harry had offered forgiveness. It helped that Harry did not hold his betrayal against him. He had, after all, explained just how capable he was to Draco and Blaise, but in so vague a way that he could be misconstrued as either completely mad or a rather wonderful conman. The two had chosen one powerful wizard over another; the mistake had not been unforeseen by Harry, and he could admit he was rather impressed with their initiative. Survival was something Harry could both understand and cherish for what it was. Little harm had been done, in any case.

Blaise had fully expected Harry to kill him for his treachery, but upon finding Harry all smiles and clemency, he had struck up a friendship with Harry almost immediately, no matter how round the bend the idea was. Blaise was rather funny, Harry found, and unmerciful when it came to his family, as was apparent in his comment the moment Harry walked through the door of the Room of Requirement, during their first meeting since the end of the war.

"You may have your justice in my death," Blaise had said to him, softly. "But pardon my uncle, if you please."

Taken aback, Harry reassured Blaise with alacrity that he was too valuable an asset to judge him on his past deeds so severely, and they had gone from there to a sort of arbitrary camaraderie, strangely strong despite the tension. Blaise was living at his mother's for the summer with his uncle (who, after seeing Harry's swift and easy defeat of both Masimilliano and Voldemort, had agreed to an alliance immediately) in tow. Blaise and Uncle Augustus had twice journeyed to Tyler Manor to try and convince Draco to accept Harry's bid for an alliance over death. So far, their visits had ended without any sort of advancements.

Draco was intolerably stubborn, and Harry was forlorn rather than enraged. Was it really so hard for Draco to think logically? But then, of course, when Harry truly thought about it, he found that there was no way in hell Draco would toss out his pride in favor of the sensible. He grudgingly empathized with that sentiment. If, however, Draco remained mulish, he thought there was little else to do other than what he didn't want to do at all.

The letter in his hands, though, told the side of the events he had been neglecting, and he was sorry for having done so. With more pressing matters on his mind, he unrolled the parchment and sighed, tapping the ash from his smoke into the tray beside him.

"_Dear Chris,_

_I haven't written you in quite a while. It was my hope that you would visit without me having to write, but I am sure you must be busy, what with defeating Dark Lords. In regards to his defeat, a triumph though it surely is, if you ever leave me worried for your life again, young man, I'll keep you tied to the pipes in the attic__, and you can deal with the ghoul for the rest of your life!_

_In other news, Bill's fiancée has not been deterred by the scarring to his face, which is healing nicely, I might add. As I'm sure you know, Greyback attacked Bill that horrible night, and so my eldest will have to deal with some of the symptoms from the curse of the full moon. He will not turn, because Greyback wasn't in his werewolf form when he bit my Bill, but the healers expect some aggression and, well, certain desires at the end of the cycle._

_Though I did not wish__ for Bill to be forsaken by Fleur, I confess I had hoped she would rethink marrying so soon. She is a bit full of herself for my tastes, Chrissie.  
_

_Listen to me, prattling on like an old hen, when it is you I have to thank that the only worry in my heart is Bill and Fleur's wedd__ing! That night you promised me that my family would be safe, and you have fulfilled that promise (though I highly suggest you don't run into danger like that again!). You have saved the lives of my children, of my Arthur, and I would seek to repay you if I didn't think of you as my own. I can only, therefore, request your presence at Bill and Fleur's wedding, as one of our family. I miss you, and, yes, even all the trouble that comes with you. I'm sure your siblings fancy a reunion as well. Ron has sulked quite a bit after not hearing from you before school ended, and Ginny is in a strop over the whole thing. Don't tell her I warned you._

_They are saying, in the _Daily Prophet_, that you used a Muggle weapon to dispose of Voldemort. I would normally disregard that particular rag, but I am finding it rather odd that you asked Arthur for the firearm (dear, is that what they call it?) that night. I do not need an explanation, Chrissie, though I am sure it is a grand tale; I will only warn you that Ron has a curiosity about him that will stress you for information. _

_I was sorry to not see you at Dumbledore's funeral, but Minerva mentioned you were close to the headmaster, and I understand your reluctance to attend. You may make up your truancy at Bill's wedding, for it will happen, it seems, no matter my opinion. _

_Hoping you are well._

_Love,  
Molly"  
_

Very touched, and filled with uncharacteristic shame, Harry placed the letter beside him with the intention of writing Molly back posthaste. He picked up another, not recognizing the scribble that was his name, and was surprised to find that it was from Sirius Black. Much of Molly's sentiments were in that one as well, though Sirius' words were not laced with the familiarity Molly's had.

Harry had found one bit particularly interesting, however: _"Remus has gone off and married Tonks. She's to have a baby next spring, I hear. It's great news, but I'm a little miffed as to why I'm stuck in Grimmauld still, while awaiting the Ministry's verdict. Suppose they don't trust me, even though they've ample proof I'm innocent. Blighters."  
_

Vowing to get to know the poor sod a bit better, Harry placed it on the top of the 'needs reply' stack and pushed on. The note he picked up next was from Ron, and Harry had to laugh at that one.

_"Chrissie, Harry, whatever,  
_

_Mate, what happened? You had better come to the wedding, because we want answers. Ginny says you're a git for not visiting us sooner. Fred and George keep whispering about something, which means you're likely to get a thrashing one way or another._

_See you soon,  
Ron"  
_

The very last missive was from Arthur Weasley, whom Harry had expected to write sooner. Arthur seemed strained in his words, as if he did not quite know what to say, but a few lines stood out to Harry as strong and sure:

"_My family owes you a great deal, Harry, but I have to say that I'm worried where you will go from here. You are ambitious, and powerful, and though I know your heart is kind, I do not want for one of my own to feel as though he were obligated to lead the world into this age of peace. You are only seventeen, after all. Perhaps a holiday this summer? I think you may need it."  
_

Harry had paused there, reading onward without really comprehending, until he got to a particular subject that had him grimacing:

"_The situation with Remus and Tonks is a hard one, _Arthur wrote_, I'm sure Sirius and Molly have omitted any news of them that may be seen as negative. Werewolves, Harry, are not allowed to marry, and with a baby on the way, the Ministry is up in arms over the scandal. Werewolf children, by birth, are nearly unheard of, and some in the Ministry find it nothing short of an abomination. Remus and Tonks have had to flee the persecution, and no one has heard from them since."  
_

The candle on his desk went out, and Harry struck a match and lit it again, using the new flame to start up another cigarette. He waved the smoke away with his hand and crossed his legs. There was only one plead for an audience with him, and even then, Mr. Weasley didn't sound exceptionally poignant about it.

_"I hope that you will attend Bill's wedding. Molly is bursting to see you, to make sure you're actually alright, and my eyes would like some proof as well. I do not presume to hope for an explanation, but seeing you healthy and happy will have to do for now, I suppose.  
_

_Yours,  
Arthur Weasley"  
_

After he had replied to them all, Harry sat back, rather pensive, and smoked another cigarette. He had guaranteed that he would be at the wedding, and he'd promised Sirius to visit in the next week, but his promises did little to pacify his own concerns. He lounged with a bottle of seasoned mead, courtesy of Sirius, and was fully prepared to smoke enough cigarettes to kill a small child. Harry stared into the fire as he mulled things over.

He had no bitterness for Sirius Black, since he couldn't have known Harry's whereabouts, not while he was serving a bird and unaware that Harry was on the streets fighting for his life. It hadn't been Sirius' fault that he wasn't there, and, if Harry was honest with himself, he was somewhat glad Black hadn't been around. He didn't need another father figure; the one he had now was more of a father than anyone could have ever been for him. There was nothing and no one that could replace Denny. Admittedly, Harry thought Sirius was an amiable sort of fellow, one who was likely capable of being friends with him, at least.

Despite Sirius' talk of them, Harry had never been desperate to know about his parents, but he knew to expect a full account of their glory days when he did visit Sirius. Oddly enough, however, this didn't exasperate him. Perhaps it was time to embrace his heritage, for trivial purposes really, even though it would be one more thing to add to all the _other_ things that needed to be done. Well, he wasn't ever happy doing nothing anyway, and it would be a good cover and a nice waste of time.

Harry had never really had a hobby before. Denny assumed the modified guns were a special interest of his, but Harry had always gone after success in that experiment, since his plans for the future depended on that success. Definitely not a hobby. As for clubbing with Francis, that had really been about getting one over his father, and the thrill of being out when he wasn't supposed to wasn't unwanted either. Again, not something he would do in his spare time. And what the hell was spare time, and when did Harry ever have it?

Inhaling a rather large cloud of smoke, he moved his mead and ash tray over to the sofa, settling before the fire, even though it had been comfortably warm where he'd previously sat. His thoughts traveled back to the Weasleys, as they were prone to do. Harry had never meant to tie himself to people in a familial sense, but without thinking about it much, the Weasleys had done it for him, and he hadn't struggled. Perhaps, in the times between executing his self-determined destiny, he could find happiness in the warmth of the Weasleys and, maybe, even in his and Sirius Black's growing amity? He knew that Denny wouldn't ever begrudge him that, and the only thing to worry about, really, was whether or not he could remain genial to them with so much going on.

The Weasleys always provided a welcomed distraction, thankfully. Sirius, it seemed, was distraught over the terrible circumstances Remus Lupin and his wife had found themselves in. Harry himself, flushed with anger when he thought of it, had given little regard to the rights of creatures, for he had always respected a good mind over physical traits any day. Griphook and Ten didn't really count as _creatures_, anyway, because Harry often times forgot the differences between them. This was not to say that he was ignorant of how the world thought, not at all, but rights seemed so trivial to Harry now.

What didn't seem trivial?

Amidst the tedium of the war with Voldemort, he hadn't given much thought to the Ministry and how screwed up their regulations were. Now that he actually thought about it, he found he was genuinely outraged that such backward prejudices still existed.

Molly was very upset about it as well, no doubt, judging by her denial of the situation, and having the Weasleys upset was rather dangerous, considering Harry's ties to them. He wondered, however, how Molly would take to him interfering, which brought him again to Arthur's words.

"…_and though I know your heart is kind, I do not want for one of my own to feel as though he were obligated to lead the world into this age of peace." _

How little and how much the Weasley family knew him, Harry thought, finishing off his drink. Arthur obviously suspected that Harry had always had more plans than just defeating the man who had killed his parents. What would they do if they understood the extent of it? Harry found he was frightened to know, scared of the repercussions of his actions, and, for the first time in his life, he wondered if what he was doing was _right_.

The firelight flickered, and a rush of heat hit his face as the flames bloomed anew. He could be sure that the Weasleys would reject him, especially if they found out after the fact. Harry did not want them to get involved in the new war, but his words came back to him: _"There are no choices anymore, Draco. I plan to destroy the endowment of will entirely."_

The question was, therefore, whether love was a power more formidable than ambition. Harry had not known love until he had met the Weasleys, had not dared to hope for it, and yet, despite the sure rejection he would face should his plans come to light, Harry was not deterred.

The world did not need a selfish leader. Family ties or not, the truth of reality was that it wasn't really singular. The world was the world, and it would change in mass or not at all. As for choices, they were fickle, and people made the wrong ones every day. His will, after all, had been taken from him at an early age, and, though he had suffered, he had also persevered. This task was more than the soft desires of a young man, and his decisions hadn't been his in so long that he wondered whether they had been his in the first place. Though it spoke of bitterness and a yearning for dystopia, Harry knew there was little that was selfish about his actions.

He remembered the feeling of purpose, the taste of destiny, the cool wind in his hair as the task flowed over him and demanded victory. Harry had mastered himself for an invisible master, and he would not, could not, fail.

He would keep it secret for as long as he could. The Weasleys would be unharmed, placed in a subtle bubble of security that he could provide. He would not tell them a truth they didn't need to know. As for the rest of the world, he expected revelations had to be had because revelations were what the world needed. His selfish desires could remain safe for as long as he was alive – hidden from the change he was sure to bring.

Decided, heavy with the weight of the future, Harry rose from his seat and put on his coat. There were things to be done, as always, he thought, stubbing out his smoke and putting his glass away. Keeping on was his only option, and, though he was tired and sluggish, he would start immediately with a visit he had avoided from the start. The Minister for Magic could wait no longer.


	30. Chapter Twenty Nine

A/n**: **The second to last chapter! In the next update, I'll explain a few things to get you guys ready for the sequel. I hope that everyone will follow me over to the next story, and that you all enjoy the end of this one enough to want more from me. Thanks for the wonderful reviews!

**I'd like to really take a moment here, and thank Amazonia for being alive. I think every one of you readers should do this too. On the count of three, you will all say, **

"**THANK YOU, AMAZONIA, FOR BEING ALIVE. LESS THAN THREE!" **

**I wouldn't have posted this story without her support. And hell, without this wonderful woman, you wouldn't have a readable story. Without this wonderful woman, my world would not continue to turn. Which means, you wouldn't have a story OR me. My god, that would be a sad day. Can we all agree that Xena is the shit? I think we can. Now be thankful!**

A Few Responses: Ana: aww, thank you my love! I'm kind of a fanatic for detail, which can either really enhance a story or make it dead boring (coughTolkiencough). I'm glad that you can see it in your head, it means I'm doing alright with the imagery. I often times picture what I read in my head too, like a really awesome action movie. I hope you enjoy the next chapter, and thank you so much for reviewing! Love! Act V: I already warned Harry. He's made a fort and called in the Special Ops. I'm not underestimating you. No way. Now you're making a shrine? Just don't do it with bubblegum. It's been done. Do your stalker tendencies deter me from trying to deliver the best chapter possible? No. You know why? I secretly like it. OMG you're my Secret Creeper. Get it? Secret Creeper instead of Secret Keeper? Jesus, I'm such a dork.

Warnings for this chapter: OC's, fluffy moments, language, mentions of violence, and some cuteness that may or may not disturb you.

* * *

Pistol Whipped

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The Prime Minister sat fretfully at his desk. He was never one to enjoy socializing much, especially with characters such as Rufus Scrimgeour, and he wondered, sometimes, how in the hell he had won over the house and the people to become the Prime Minister. His beloved wife said it had more to do with his vaunted conventional appearance and personality. His strength was in being a regular man of the people (she said), rather than his ability to talk to the various heads of the government he now ran. He was inclined to believe her, given the disastrous meeting he had hosted with the President of the United States this morning.

A surly, relentless bastard though he was, the Prime Minister tried very hard to appease the implacable leader. Apparently, the President was having a bit of trouble across the pond. That wasn't anything outlandish; his whispered concern and obvious fear of the state of the States was what had shocked the Prime Minister.

"Do you know of… well…" the President had paused, his gaze moving from side to side nervously. "This magic deal?" he'd murmured out of the corner of his mouth.

Having a slight idea what the man was on about, the Prime Minister told the President he did. The man had the nerve to guffaw at him, then, as if he had told a very funny, very untoward joke. He was so amused that he reclined in his chair a bit too much and rocked backward. His subsequent momentum forward seemed to sober him, though, and the Prime Minister suddenly found himself nose to nose with the disagreeable American, his eyes intense with ominous news.

"You are aware of them, I take it?" the President went on quickly. "Magic people. I have a few of them working for the government. For my government."

"I…" he cleared his throat, wiping his forehead hastily with his handkerchief. "Working for you, did you say?" he stuttered.

He, of course, still had Kingsley Shaklebolt working in the adjoining office, but he had an inkling that the President had employed them knowingly into a rather high position of power. He found that he was correct, unfortunately.

"Hit Wizards, we call them," the President explained enthusiastically. "Efficient men. Get the job done. Not like your Minister for Magic here, and I can't say I agree with that—"

The Prime Minister started to object, but the fellow plowed on. "With having them lead themselves." He shook his head. "Bad idea, Minister. We have an entire department that controls _our_ wizards, you know."

"I, well… yes. I suppose," he stumbled over his words. It was suddenly too hot in the room. "But their Minister seems responsible enough. Not very amiable, surely, but apt for the post."

The President gave him a displeased frown. "Does he know of the rebellion that's starting? The coup d'é tat in the pipeline?" he asked wryly.

Afraid to admit that he hadn't the foggiest what the President meant, he morosely remained silent, which pleased the man greatly.

"The people who know about the wizards," the President continued, moving forward in his seat conspiratorially, "they're planning a war."

"A war between us?" he repeated, having trouble masking the panic in his voice. "Impossible," the Prime Minister choked.

"Very possible, Minister. I'm in agreement with it, as well." The man nodded concisely.

"Agreement?" he croaked. "You _Agree_?"

"The Vatican was destroyed almost a month ago, Minister. It was wizards that did it. A landmark such as that! A _holy _place!" he ranted, swiping a hand through the air as if it were a killing blow to their supposed enemies. "Completely destroyed thanks to the monstrous violence of _wizards_. Any good man wouldn't stand for that."

"We don't yet have proof—"

The President glared at him. "My Hit Wizards were promptly on the scene. Recognized the touch of magic right away. What other proof do you need?" he interrupted.

A number of terrible scenarios ran through the Minister's head, images of mass destruction and an uncontrolled populous. He swallowed audibly, wondering briefly if he was doomed to go down as the worst Prime Minister in history. As if reading his mind, the President leaned forward again and whispered. "You think we're no match for magic, do you?" he asked, and then he grinned. "But the revolution has started, and they have an ace up their sleeve."

Startled, he shook his head as if he didn't want to hear, but the President didn't seem deterred in the slightest.

"There are new weapons on the market," he said rather happily. "Guns of unimaginable power! The United States government is trying to set up a deal with the leaders of the revolution. We want to take over the war entirely. I have already met with the managers who make the weapons in bulk, though I haven't spoken to the inventor and the mastermind of the party. When I do, I have plans for him; I want to make him a general. I want to begin this war on our own terms, before they can strike first and have the advantage." The President slammed his fist into his palm. "Only a smart man worthy of his colors would understand that."

"You can't be serious!" the Minister managed to say, nearly rising from his seat. "You're proposing a war with wizards," he said furiously. "A war between two very destructive worlds! A—"

"A war that is long overdue," the President cut him off, waving a hand. "Think about it. Think about the advantages of having their magic controlled by us normal people. We are too vulnerable like this; they have too much power. You think about it, and you let me know," he said, clapping the Minister on the back.

He had little else to say on the matter, and when his PR Assistant bid them to adjourn to the press conference, he remained silent at the plinth. The press rather thought him successfully cowed by the U.S. leader, but the Minister could not think on that for too long. They had no idea, after all, that a world of magic existed, that one of the most powerful men in the world was supporting a plan that would lead to destruction of unparalleled proportions. If they criticized the meekly ill expression on his face (while he stood there beside the grinning President) in the paper the next day, he resolved not to give a buggering fuck because they didn't understand just how bollixed things had gotten.

Now, as he waited for the Minister for Magic's arrival, the Prime Minister found himself sweating heavily as he drank from a bottle of port. Ambivalent and terribly nervous, he thought about how much faith he had in the other Minister. Should he tell the man of the impending chaos? By the time the portrait had announced the arrival of the other Minister, he hadn't yet decided his course of action, for the news had come too soon and without any merciful buffers.

He raised his eyes to the fire as it bloomed green and two people stepped out from its depths. Scrimgeour, looking happier than the Prime Minister had ever seen him, shook his hand enthusiastically and waved an arm to introduce his companion.

"This is my good friend, Harry Potter," Scrimgeour said grandly, though his voice still maintained that severe manner it always had.

The Prime Minister was startled. Scrimgeour's friend was a rather attractive young man who had a very gentle look on his face as they shook hands. Though when the Muggle caught sight of the intense glare the boy gave the Minister for Magic's back when the introductions had ended, he bit his lip with worry at the stark change in his demeanor.

For the first time during any meeting with the Minister for Magic, they sat down. Slightly taken aback, the Prime Minister glanced at his bottle of port and offered them a drink.

"No, thank you," Scrimgeour answered for the both of them. "I am here to bring good news. Very good news."

The Prime Minister could not help but perk up, for this particular seminar had never wielded good tidings. Not once since he had been Minister. Scrimgeour grinned at him and turned to his companion, "Perhaps, if you will, Harry…?"

Sitting forward suddenly, the boy planted his intense green eyes on the Minister, and he was glad that he wasn't asked to speak because, if he had not been struck silent at that stare, he rather thought his words would suffer and come out completely incomprehensible. _"The Ministry Fudge had a bowler hat was you have nice eyes" _would have probably been his response to whatever this boy said. He bit his lip harshly and vowed to not say anything.

"You know of the Dark Lord, I take it," the lad began. "The one who caused all that trouble before? Well, he's dead."

"Our Harry has done it, I'll have you know," Scrimgeour said, uncommonly jovial. "I wanted you to meet him, Minister. From this point on, he's going to be my liaison for the Muggle world! He's a good lad; the only one for the job!"

The Prime Minister didn't respond, but his look of disbelief was worth more than his words. Scrimgeour seemed a bit offended that he would doubt them, and the Prime Minister sheepishly glanced away. Harry Potter, however, did not appear hurt by the skepticism, and he smiled at the Minister softly.

"He was the Chosen One, you see," Scrimgeour added, as if the Muggle Minister should know what that meant. "Despite how young he is, he's done the Wizarding World a great service. Grew up in your world, you see. So I asked if he would be an ambassador, of sorts, now that the war is over." He clapped Harry on the back. "He's capable, I assure you, Minister. Pewter cauldron capable."

Shaking off the odd metaphor, the Prime Minister nodded to Harry in understanding, though he didn't entirely agree with the random appointment.

"I'll leave you two to it, then!" the Minister for Magic said, rising swiftly.

"You're leaving?" he asked, gaping.

Scrimgeour smiled politely. "Yes, I think I will," he confirmed, moving towards the fire. "You two can have a nightcap and get to know each other. I will see you later, Harry."

Before Scrimgeour left, Harry dipped his head at him. Then, with a smile, he turned his eyes to the man in front of him. The fire flared for a moment before it once again retained its normal hue. The lad waved a hand very suddenly toward the portrait that had announced his arrival, the same one that the Minister was always afraid would come to life, since it always spoke when a magical representative was on the way (which was never a good thing). The portrait went to sleep immediately.

"I value privacy quite a bit, sir," the boy explained as, nervously, the Minister prepared the drinks. He handed one over to the wizard.

Fearing a long silence between them, the Prime Minister said hesitantly, "You, er…" he cleared his throat again. "You grew up in our, well," he stopped and coughed this time, for his anxiety had begun to choke him. "In _our_ world?" he finished brokenly.

"This is good whiskey, sir," Harry chose to say instead, examining his glass. "I grew up in London," he then responded without losing his smile.

"Oh, yes." The Minister took a large gulp of his drink; it instantaneously burned the back of his throat and distorted his next words. "Which did you find better?" he asked without thinking.

Harry laughed, and it was as handsome a sound as the boys face was in appearance. Thankful that the boy hadn't taken offence, the Minister chanced a smile and waited for his answer.

"The Wizarding World by far, sir. If I'm to be so bold, I would say you Muggles are a bit backward to us, and certainly not as powerful."

The Prime Minister lost his smile. _You Muggles?_ he thought, aghast.

"Do not suppose this is a friendly sort of summit," Harry continued, swirling his drink. "Muggles are beneath wizards, and will continue to be until your species dies out. I've only agreed to be an envoy for a price, and the Minister is as ambitious as any good politician, so he's conceded to my wishes accordingly."

He felt the sweat bead on his forehead once more, and he found his voice somewhere around his knees. "I don't see why there can't be an alliance between us," he stated, licking his lips. "We've always lived amongst each other favorably…" he stopped when the boy laughed again, much less kindly than before.

"There was never an _alliance_. We kept you close for our own convenience, Minister. We have no fear of _your kind_. We don't need any false negotiations so that there will be peace between us. How preposterous," he said.

Feeling himself grow hot with anger, he took a swift pull of his drink and choked out, "We're not as weak as that!"

"I mean no offence," Harry scoffed laughingly, "but I do believe you are. As does the rest of the Wizarding World. Really, sir, ignorance isn't becoming."

The Minister looked away from those eyes and breathed in deeply for a moment. "You have no intention of being an ambassador, do you, Mr.—?"

He had forgotten the boy's last name in his anger, and somehow, Harry thought that it was desperately amusing. "Potter," he provided. "And, no, I doubt you will see me much after this obligatory meeting."

The Prime Minister didn't feel at all guilty when he said, "If it's all the same, I can't say I'm disappointed."

The boy laughed delightedly, finished his drink, and tipped it over on the Minister's desk as if it were a shot glass. The Minister saw it for what it was, a blatant symbol of just how ridiculous the Wizarding World thought 'Muggles' were. To rub it in, no doubt, Potter grinned and said, "Thanks for the drink, mate."

Clenching his teeth, the Muggle Minister watched the wizard as he rose to return to the fire. He struggled for a moment before he sputtered and went balls to the wall. "What of the Vatican? Was that truly your people's doing?" he asked breathlessly.

His query had sounded as angry as he'd hoped, and Potter turned back to stare at him, looking slightly surprised. "Of course it was," he responded, speaking to the Minister as if he were really rather stupid. "The Ministry for Magic does regret the damages, sir, but we're hardly at fault."

"Regret…" he stammered. "Not at _fault_?"

"Well, it was bound to happen, you see? You Muggles put things in our path, and we can't help our power at times. Not to mention, your foundations are less then up to par." The boy paused and shrugged. "You _really_ should consult us about where you put your religious sanctuaries."

The Prime Minister had never been slapped in the face before, but it certainly felt like Harry Potter had done just that. He gaped openly at the boy. "You—" he started, but could not finish. In a stupor, he shook his head and simply stared.

"Thanks for understanding," Harry said, bowing a little in mocking gesture of respect. With no other goodbye but his amused smile, the new liaison for the Muggle world disappeared into the magical fire.

The Prime Minister sat for a long while, quite shocked, staring into the ornate fireplace that had served as a magical transport system for far longer than he had been Minister. Another whiskey, dry this time, made its way into his stomach, scalding him like the absolute derision he felt for this terrible day. When he rose from his seat with purpose, he swayed a bit, though he still managed to stay on his feet.

Bypassing Kingsley entirely, he called for his PR Assistant, and she trudged in with a worried expression on her face.

"Are you quite alright, sir?" she asked, and he waved her concerns away.

"I'm well. I'm well," he told her. "Well," he paused thoughtfully. "I'm well enough. I want you to ring a message to the President of the United States."

"But sir—"

"I know you're not employed to do so, but I trust you," he cut her off, and she shut her mouth at this abrupt flattery. "Tell him I've thought about it, and," he swallowed heavily and nodded, "I'm in."

_Yes, indeed_, the Prime Minister thought as his baffled assistant left, _I'm very much _in_. _

.o00o.

Bill and Fleur's wedding was a wonderfully cheerful event. Besides Ron's Auntie Muriel telling anyone who would listen that Dumbledore was a fraud, causing Elphias Doge to burst into tears at the repeated assaults on his hero, the party went flawlessly. The crotchety old woman did not have the power to ruin the celebration completely. Fleur had looked beautiful, as usual, and her glow had nearly encompassed the entire proceedings in sparkling splendor. And despite the last minute tasks she still needed to do before all of the guests arrived, Molly had pounced on Harry when he had shown up at the Burrow.

"Oh, Chrissie!" she had cheered, clasping him tightly. "It's so good to see you, dear!"

Harry hugged her back just as fiercely. "It's good to see you too, ma'am." He wasn't surprised to find that his words were indeed truthful, and that the joyful feeling inside him was the consequence of being at the Burrow again. Arthur moved in to shake his hand, but Harry by-passed it and gave him a hug instead.

"And I thought my boys were too old for hugs," Arthur chuckled, drawing back to look at him. "How are you, Harry?"

"I'm well," he beamed. "Very well, actually."

Ron tackled him, then immediately joined forces with him against the tide of family members. Ginny, who looked stunning in her bridesmaid's dress, had popped out of her room with her hair not quite done yet and gave him a beaming, dangerous smile.

"I'm glad you're here," she said, and Harry winced. Before she could likely go off on him like she so wanted to, her mother corralled her back to her room to finish getting ready.

"She's really not that hacked off," Ron tried to reassure him, scratching at the stubble emerging on his chin. "We heard about what you did for Remus and Tonks, anyway."

"Did you?" Harry asked as they made their way back to the kitchen.

Ron nodded. "It's all over the news, isn't it? The Werewolf Reform," he said, and Harry could hear the capitals in his voice. Ron stopped at the foot of the staircase and grinned at Harry bemusedly. "That, and you becoming the new ambassador – of sorts – for the Muggles, of course. It's mental, mate."

"A small price to pay for Remus and Tonks," Harry told him sullenly. "I'm a bit of a Ministry Mascot now. Scrimgeour has also requested I take over training the Aurors. I'm not keen on it, to be honest."

Clapping him on the shoulder, they continued towards the kitchen. "Well, that's a job, isn't it?" he said proudly, as if Harry were his son. Harry rolled his eyes.

"I'm going to get my O.W.L.'s and N.E.W.T's done before all that," he explained. "I don't want the Wizarding World to think I've gotten the job just because of Voldemort."

"No one would blame you if you did, you know. Oh, bollocks, Auntie Muriel's early."

After the event, Harry sat surrounded by Weasleys, including Bill, who had let his wife tour about the yard chatting with guests. They toasted Bill on his marriage, with Fred and George drinking the Fire Whiskey liberally, and their loud humor was only interrupted when Remus and Tonks came over to wish Bill and Fleur well.

"Can I speak to you a moment, Harry?"

When Harry nodded and rose, Tonks met his eyes, and her grin was so appreciative that Harry turned away from her awkwardly. He hoped Remus wouldn't be too sentimental about it. Remus led him to the far side of the tent, where a few lit bobbles started to glow brightly as the afternoon dimmed to evening.

"I know it was you," Remus said to him quickly. Then he seemed to chastise himself and started speaking again, a bit slower. "I… the Werewolf Reform, I mean. I know it was you."

Slightly speechless after that, Harry blinked and dipped his head. "Scrimgeour needed an ass kicking anyway."

Remus was a little baffled at that turn of phrase, but he waved it off unconcernedly. "Tonks is pregnant," he blurted instead.

Unsurprised, since Sirius and Mr. Weasley had already told him, Harry smiled grandly anyway and shook his hand. "Congratulations! That's wonderful, Remus," he said.

"Only because of what you've done," Remus went on, and then he leaned in a bit and spoke softly. "My worry was that the baby would go through what I went through. The prejudice, you know? Because of you, my baby won't have to. There's no way for me to repay you, really."

Harry started to lift his shoulder, but then he stopped. After a moment's thought, he looked carefully at Remus, at the hopeful look in his eyes as the werewolf stared back. "I'll hold you to that," he said, grinning. "You can do me a favor one of these days."

The man grasped him by the shoulder, shaking him a bit as a joyful grin stretched across his face. "I will do that," he answered happily. "Anything you need. Oh, and I think Sirius is here."

Remus jutted a thumb at the guffawing man standing by the Weasley table, where they had all gathered around to take shots from numerous bottles of what looked to be wildly colored alcohol. Ron wobbled in his seat as he waved Harry to them. With a last, very quiet, thank you, Remus left to gather Tonks, and Harry made his way over to the table. There was a rousing cheer when he arrived.

"Harry!"

"ChrissieHarry!"

"Defeater of Voldemort!"

"Have a drink, won't you?"

Harry sat down with a smile and did just that.

.o00o.

Tyler's manor was alight for the first time in a long while, and Henry was struck dumb for a moment as he traipsed across the stone walkway to the house. It seemed as if every light in every window was lit, and it reminded him of the time before Tyler had died, when his entire family had lived there. Henry forced himself back to the present and moved up to the door. Little Jessica opened it and immediately hugged him around the waist.

"Uncle Henry!" she exclaimed happily.

Alarmed at her new moniker for him, he moved through the doorway, with the girl still attached, and kicked the door shut behind him. "How are you, Jessie?" he asked a bit awkwardly.

"I'm well!" Jessica said, and decided his question was her cue to begin a tangent about Bo, her mother, and her whining little sister, and by the end of it Henry's head was spinning.

"Oh, it's you," McKay said, walking into the entrance hall to inspect the fracas.

"How goes it, McKay?"

John merely grunted, before turning back to go into the kitchen. Henry followed, with Jessica close behind. Then Stephanie came out and cried "Uncle Henry!" just like her sister had, and the two began to bicker about whom, exactly, Henry belonged to.

"A laugh riot, this uncle business," Henry told McKay as Mary shooed her children upstairs. He sat beside John and grimaced. "Yeah, very funny, Uncle John."

"You want to tell me why I've got two wizards, well, three now, in the house? Around my family?" John asked quietly, sipping from his coffee nonchalantly.

Henry flushed. "I'm sorry about that, John, really—"

"You're sorry? You're sorry," he laughed sardonically. "Didn't stop you from bringing them here, did it?"

"They had nowhere else to go, McKay," Henry said to him, a note of impatience in his voice. He sighed and blatantly ignored the man's anger. "Are they settling in well?" he asked pleasantly.

"Up with that rude boy of theirs all the time. Never see them."

"Well, then, what's the problem?" he couldn't help but counter angrily.

McKay put down his coffee cup and turned to glare at him. "I don't like them. Any of them," John extrapolated in a very cross manner.

"Neither does Denny," Henry pointed out before moving to grab a mug. "But he doesn't whine about it over and over again."

"Denny's in New York, not here. You sent him to Frank, don't you remember? Got him out of this hellhole," McKay grumbled, the obvious 'you idiot' at the end of his sentence made Henry bristle a bit.

"I do," he responded, dropping sugar into his coffee. "They'll be out soon, John. I promise."

John gave him a sideways glower. "Sure they will," he said, finishing his cup and putting it into the sink. Henry sighed and moved the mug towards him, but, before he could take a sip, John snatched it from his hand and poured it down the sink. Looking up at the ceiling for help, Henry rolled his eyes as a snickering McKay left the kitchen.

He made his way upstairs, resolved to ignore the man if he was going to be a grump. Henry knocked on Draco's door briefly before he let himself in. The room had been expanded to fit them all, and he was momentarily shocked at the changes. Lucius Malfoy sat pristinely on a dark chair, but his wife, Narcissa, was on the bed with her son, who seemed to have been in the middle of a heated argument with her before Henry interrupted.

"Potter," Draco said when he entered, his teeth clenched.

"Mr. Potter," Lucius greeted him, almost at the same time.

"How are you settling in?"

Lucius inclined his head politely, casting a quick warning look at his son, before he said, "The accommodations are quite fine, thank you. We hope to be in France by the end of the week, though. We have a house there, you see, Mr. Potter." A house that hadn't been commandeered by the Ministry, Lucius said as much without speaking.

"Thank you, Mr. Potter," Narcissa abruptly said. "For our freedom."

She seemed bitter, though, and Draco took up where his mother left off. "But not mine, right Potter?" he hissed. "You've let my family go, but not me!"

"Draco," Lucius said, warningly, but his son ignored him.

"Yeah, _thanks,_ Potter," he snapped, raising himself off of the bed. "I'm still imprisoned here, in this house, with _Muggles_, and you go and pardon my parents without pardoning me. My allegiance isn't so easily bought!"

"Stop it now, Draco," Narcissa said soothingly, reaching out to place a hand on his shoulder. Though Draco went silent in response, he did not stop glaring at Henry.

Henry stared back, calmly. "Do you mind if I speak to Draco alone?" he asked softly.

Lucius nodded semi-respectfully and lead a hesitant Narcissa out of the room. Draco watched them go wistfully, but when he turned his stony eyes to Henry, they were perhaps impossibly more furious than before. Henry sat down on the chair Lucius had vacated.

"Will you sit?" he asked, but when Draco merely frowned, he added, "Please?"

The boy did so, but with a look that said he hadn't been commanded to obey, and he wasn't likely to follow anymore of Henry's requests. Henry nodded shortly and sighed.

"I did not free your parents to gain favor with you," Henry began, ignoring Draco's snort. "And neither do I keep you a prisoner for malicious reasons."

"And yet there are wards on the door that won't let me leave," Draco interrupted angrily. "You're always lying, aren't you? I think it's all you ever do."

Henry looked away from him, trying to remain patient, and cleared his throat. "Have you decided?" he questioned somewhat sternly.

Draco was taken aback by his words, and he frowned and snapped, "Decided what?"

Henry was the one to scoff now. "To live or die, Draco. Have you made a decision?"

There was very little for Draco to say, then, because, in the end, he was more appreciative of his life than his pride. Henry hoped to change that, and, as he left the house, he had faith that it _would_ change. That Draco Malfoy, by the time the war was over, would not only be loyal enough to Henry, but loyal to himself, as well. Having glimpsed the way Draco could work, with cunning and determination, Henry did not want to lose such an obvious asset. And maybe, perhaps, when all was said and done, there would be a little attachment there for them to work with.

Henry was startled to find he was hoping for that particular chance above everything else. After all, he did like the unreasonable pillock, and he found his soft spot for Draco not at all inconvenient or disturbing. Infuriating, yes, but Draco could be very attractive despite that. Henry hadn't loved Francis Gabriel, but he liked to think Oscar Van Rued had very nearly secured a piece of his heart. Maybe. He certainly spared enough concern (not love, so much) for Frankie, even though, without speaking, they had decided to cut their sexual relations.

Draco was obviously a very different person from any of those men, and different in many ways. If Henry had to admit it, he would say that he didn't want to lose Draco, and not only because of how advantageous his intelligence could be. But if Henry was completely honest with himself, he could confess that his need for Draco to live had nothing whatsoever to do with the war, though he was an opportunist, and Draco was a _powerful_ wizard.

And besides, it took a lot of balls to double-cross Henry Brooks, and he had to admire that.

He supposed it would be a strange sort of love, a hated type of affection, perhaps, but he did, in fact, love Draco Malfoy. A relationship like theirs would need only a push to become something dangerous. Something fatal. Henry had to laugh to himself because, in his heart, he knew there could only be that sort of love for him. A sort of love like the love he had for the pistol in his pocket.

.o00o.

Gringotts was crowded with merry wizards and witches who were unconcerned with the shadow of war and quite happy to go, with little worry, about their normal business. Harry was glad he had chosen to drink Polyjuice. He was disguising himself as Lucius Malfoy for the time being, and it was an apt choice, he realized, since the public gave him a wide berth.

He was glad the Malfoys had chosen to move to France, then, because living in Wizarding England would only mean receiving daily reactions such as the ones Harry was getting now, and poor Narcissa would have hated that. He went up to the desk and asked for Griphook, hoping the goblin was prompt, given his hour as Lucius was just about up. Luckily, his friend seemed to be waiting for him.

"Ah, I thought you would come," Griphook said, leading him to the carts. "But I didn't expect you to arrive underneath a disguise."

"Griphook," he said slowly. "I would like to free Tenebres."

Far from being shocked or angry, as Harry thought he would be, Griphook laughed merrily and said, "I thought you might say that."

"No objections?" Henry asked, surprised.

"No, I don't think so, _wizard_." They shuffled into the cart. "But you thought you would do it as Lucius Malfoy?"

"Well, yes—"

Griphook looked at him briefly. "There's no need, Mr. Potter," he said, chortling. The wind caught the sound and carried it through the snaky rails in an echo. "The goblins owe you the freedom of the oldest dragon in the country, at least."

"I'd think you'd owe Ten that," Harry argued without anger.

"He resolved to stay and see you through the end of the war," Griphook said, looking as if he wanted to thump Harry on the head. "The Elders figured you would ask for his freedom, which can only be gained through a wizard. No goblin owns another creature. You know this."

Harry adjusted himself a bit in the cart, then, declining to give Griphook a response as he tried to sit more comfortably. The goblin took the initiative and said, "I will be leaving the bank as well."

"You…" Harry began, rather shocked, and he jolted when the cart came to a stop in front of the hall that lead to Tenebres's den. "Why are you leaving?" he asked once they'd gotten out.

"I am going back to my people, to prepare them."

Griphook moved to the front, and Harry followed him down the hall. "But I thought all of the goblins worked here?" he exclaimed, feeling foolish when Griphook eyed him. The Polyjuice potion suddenly started to wear off, but instead of drinking from the flask he had in his pocket, Harry whisked a hand over his clothing to change them back to normal.

"Wise, I'd say, to not been seen this day. Many of us are speaking of leaving the bank. My freedom as well as Tenebres' will not go unnoticed by the wizards."

Harry was silent, waiting for the goblin to speak, but Griphook seemed to be waiting for him to interrupt. "We are all supporting this war you propose," he went on when Harry said nothing. He suddenly stopped and turned to him. "Wizards have thought themselves superior for far too long, and, though we have no sympathies for Muggles, it is fitting that they should bring their unwitting predators down. Though I suspect you do not have sympathy for them, either. It is perhaps why we get along so very well."

Having to smile at that, Harry raised an eyebrow at his goblin friend. "How ever did you come to that conclusion?" he said teasingly.

"You are more than a wizard, Mr. Potter," Griphook told him as he started to move towards the den again. "More than a Muggle, as well. We have known this for a very long time. Our prophets, however, are better than yours. Resign yourself to the fact you will never be normal."

He laughed, following Griphook quickly. "I'm sure," he responded wryly, but he dropped the subject when Ten and Bo saw him.

"Dragon speaker!"

"Human father!"

"Griphook!" Griphook added in sourly sarcasm. "How nice to see you."

They exchanged greetings as Bo tittered uproariously at the goblin's joke. When the drake tackled Harry affectionately, he simply laughed, allowing Bo to wrap around him as he had done when he was tiny. Tenebres bestowed him with a happy nudge that would have dropped him to the floor had Bo not been supporting his back.

"Hullo," he said, petting Bo. "How are you, my dear? I had thought we would not be able to speak."

Ten looked surprised at that. "Why not, Dragon Speaker?" he rumbled, and when Harry remained silent, he craned his neck to Griphook for answers.

"I haven't any idea what he's talking about," Griphook objected, glaring at Harry for not saying anything.

Harry sighed heavily. "The Horcrux that allowed me to speak to you is gone, you see. I destroyed it," he explained.

The dragon laughed. "You were not gifted The Speak by that wizard! You thought that you had been? How odd! You've been a Speaker all along, human. Ling gave it to you. The blessing to Speak with Creatures. It was Ling, I tell you."

Harry started. "I've only spoken to Dragons, Ten," he said skeptically.

Laughter rang throughout the den again, but it Griphook's this time. "He doesn't mean that you will speak to every creature that crosses your path. Don't be so arrogant," he said, and Harry scowled at him. "You have a gift with creatures, of that we are sure, but it is your mind's magics that are strong. They enabled you to speak to Ten that first time."

"Yes, well," Ten interrupted, looking severe. "Ling has plans for you yet. You're still a young drake, you know."

"The prophets are of the same opinion," Griphook put in casually. "You've talents unlearned."  
"Prophets, Ling…" Harry raised his eyes and turned to share a look with Bo. "No offence, but I don't believe in that sort of thing."

"You should!" Griphook yelled at him just as Ten said despondently, "You did when you were a baby drake!"

Bo blew out a cloud of smoke and nudged Harry in the ear. "Oh, he's only pulling your leg," Bo exclaimed loudly to them. "He believes in something! He's always believed in something."

"Dearest, please," Harry interrupted crossly.

"More than a wizard," Griphook reminded him, glaring at them both. "More than a human, as well. Think what you like, but the truth remains the same."

Harry smiled wryly. "I am so very gifted," he murmured sarcastically. "Who to thank, I wonder?"

Bo snuffled him again, and Harry couldn't help but laugh. Tenebres seemed to realize he was joking about, so he thumped his massive tail on the ground happily. Griphook remained irritable. "Too many to thank," he snapped at Harry. "But you can start by being grateful."

Though Harry wouldn't apologize for riling the goblin up on purpose, he did look down at his shoes before shrugging a bit sadly at the angry creature. Grudgingly, Griphook let it go and nodded. "Just do your task, Harry Potter. Perhaps one day you will have your answers," he said.

Harry didn't like those rather ominous words, but he decided not to quarrel with Griphook and merely smiled. The goblin turned to Tenebres.

"We are in agreement, Dragon King, that your freedom, if proposed, would be had."

Ten twitched violently, one of his wings hitting Bo square in the face. "Ow!" Bo cried.

"Sorry, my drake," he said absently, and, though Harry quickly rubbed the place where the wing had hit, Bo sniffed indignantly. "You are proffering for my freedom?" he asked Harry.

"Yes," Harry told him, holding Bo close. "You should not be here, Ten. It isn't your home."

"I fear the goblins have done you a great disservice by bringing you here," Griphook said, apologizing for something he could not have controlled. "Though we realized our mishap long ago, we could not set you free without a wizard to tender. On behalf of the goblin race, I apologize."

"Gold dealers are so presumptuous," Ten grumbled to Bo and Harry. "You've no need to apologize, and I'll take no sorry words from you, either, Dragon Speaker. One dragon does not speak for a fleet of dragons."

Harry smiled when Bo cheered. "No grudges, then! Everything is hunky dory, it looks like!" Bo said excitedly.

"Hunky dory?" Harry repeated, amused.

"Don't make fun of me!"

"Never, love," he laughed, turning to stare at Griphook and Ten.

Rather cheerfully, Ten swung his large head around to bow to Griphook formally. "I thank you, Griphook," he said sincerely.

"I would not thank me," Griphook said, waving a gnarled hand. "Harry Potter is the reason why your freedom is a reality. The Elders and I do this for revenge."

"Ah, yes, Ten," Harry spoke up, grinning. "There are no philanthropists among his kind!"

Griphook glared and shook a finger. "We have our uses, _wizard_," he retorted, though it was obvious there was no ire there.

"Oh, yes, 'do your task, Harry Potter,'" Harry mocked, and Bo sniggered. "Goblins are dreadfully underappreciated, I think."

The goblin gave him a very rare smile; it was one that didn't even make Harry feel as though he were about to be disemboweled. Griphook turned to Tenebres, gazing up at his friend of many years.

"Are you ready to be free, dragon?" he asked him.

"I confess, I am quite partial to that," Ten said grandly, obviously overjoyed. He bowed low, and Griphook moved forward and jumped onto the dragon's back.

"You're going to fly out of here?" Harry asked, askance.

Bo jumped up too, untangling himself from Harry. "Adventure!" Bo shouted as he stretched his wings.

"Well…" Griphook grinned at him over Ten's back. "I figure we may as well leave with a bang. Scare the wizards a bit, you know?"

Harry couldn't help but laugh. Ten reared as Griphook cut the golden chains around his feet with a flash of bright blue light. They were off in a matter of seconds. "I will see you soon, wizard!" Griphook yelled as they gathered speed.

Bo gave him a nudge and a nuzzle before quickly taking off after them. "Call on me soon, human father!" he shouted joyfully.

"So long, Dragon Speaker," Tenebres's voice flittered through his mind, soft and happy. "We will meet again."

He stood in the wreckage of the dragon's old den, watching the rubble and dust rise up as the barriers of the canals fell to the dragon's fire and Griphook's quick casting. Silly little Bo was following gleefully in their wake. Harry Apparated to the street just in time to see them launch into the air, magnificent and as black as night in the clear blue sky.

Witches and wizards flooded into the streets, shouting and pointing at their ascent into the horizon with horrified befuddlement. Only Harry, unnoticed as he stood amidst the destruction of Gringotts, was smiling. He grinned until they disappeared from view, swallowed up by the sky that stretched, until forever, without any chains.


	31. Chapter Thirty

**Read Please****: **Ah, the end. Also, the start of my four week break, which I am _very_ excited about. What? You try updating every week for almost seven months and see how tired _you_ are. Jeez. I had quite a nice ending party for PW, it consisted of Muse (live!), beer, and cigarettes. Ah, sweet. Anyway, a few things about the sequel: **1**. I'll be back on _November 5__th_, and if you plan on following the story you'll need to add me to your author alerts if you don't want to have to check back. **2**. The sequel is shorter than PW. Yes, it is finished. I've only need to type and edit. **3**. I will be putting up some stuff on my WP (that I sort of forgot about, because I pretty much forget everything), so you might want to check that out soon. In a week. Hopefully. **4**. The genre for the sequel is drama/tragedy. Whatever humor there is will be overshadowed by the angst. Sorry. **5**. I'll be changing PW's summary to fit the sequel's summary. I'm anal like that. Don't freak if it's different. **6**. When the sequel is up, you will get your review responses for this last chapter. You didn't think I would skip out on you, did you? ;)

That's about it. That's all you need to know. I think. I'd really appreciate some reviews for this chapter, considering everyone kind of failed last chapter (I know, school, but you guys had me thinking I'd done something wrong until Amazonia clubbed me over the head with logic). So, give it your best shot and review. Put some real effort into it. Bend over backwards (why does that sound dirty?) to give me some excellent reviews. I know you guys are capable of it. I've babbled enough.

Enjoy.

Dedication: to Amazonia, for being my muse for years. We've known each other for years now, can you believe it? Less than three. To everyone that reviewed PW. I loved corresponding with you all while I posted this story. Special thanks to: **Will Parry **(my precious), **Airborn-Love **(I adore you), **Ana**, **Act V Scene III**, **Crazychick23**, **ncgal**, **OccAmy** **Phyre**, **The Iza**, **Lady of the Hunt**, **Fudgebaby**, **DiesIrae773**, **Fancy Piece of Work**, **Mina Hikari**, **Tartuffe** (the opera, not the truffle), **nairiefairie** (Rie-Rie! Darling!), **Nocens**, **Ralia**, **Eve Frost**, **Kantarose**, **Miss Poki **(excellent CC), **ParisRoyale**, **Miss Darkness**, **kerplank**, **Vivaldinlove**, **Miss Galleta**, and fuck that's all I can remember off the top of my head. Thanks everyone, it's been a pleasure.

A Few Responses: Ana: Aw, love, thank you! I have to admit, some parts in this story had me pretty proud of myself. And then, of course, I remembered how lame I actually am. Kind of wanted a .357 right about then. Nah, I kid. I really do hope to hear from you in the sequel, it's been a pleasure responding to your lovely reviews. Don't be a stranger, Ana, and thanks!

Warnings for this chapter: language, violence, slash, sort of a cliffhanger, and mass death.

* * *

Pistol Whipped

Chapter Thirty

He stood outside of the diner with the last cigarette in his pack burning slow and strong into his lungs. The steps outside were hot beneath his feet; summer was hitting New York hard this year, and the sky seemed to be on fire. He moved to the side to let a couple pass, their smiles light and cheery in the afternoon sun. As he waited, he saw a familiar face make its way towards him. When the man came close enough to him, his nose scrunched at the smell of the smoke.

Grabbing the cigarette from his hands, the man threw it to the floor and stomped it out fiercely. "How many times do I have to tell you," Denny said sternly, "how disgusting that habit is, Henry?"

Henry Brooks grimaced, snarling, "That was my last smoke, Denny."

Mocking him silently, Denny moved past his son and opened the door, and Henry reluctantly followed. They spotted the police immediately, dressed in polished suits as they were, and headed across the busy diner to meet them.

"If I'd known you were here, Donnelly, I wouldn't have lagged outside," Henry cheeked, sitting down carelessly.

"Marks is in the van, and he says you've been outside for at least fifteen minutes," Donnelly scoffed, glaring at him.

Denny laughed at Henry's expense. "You've a lot of sass, lad," he joked, ordering a cup of coffee. Denny looked around, briefly, to see if anyone thought him funny, and when Donnelly glowered and Monroe frowned, he lost his smile and shrugged. Henry patted him on the back.

"How are we today, mates?" Henry asked the Agents.

Donnelly seemed to be waiting for the chance to rant because he immediately pulled a folder from his lap and laid it open. "There was a local investigation of the munitions factory," he said, looking up at Henry seriously. "They seemed to think the place wasn't legal."

"Oh?" Henry responded, faking surprise. He motioned for Donnelly to go on when it looked like the agent would cuff him.

"We took care of it," he grunted. "Also, it looks like the Hit Wizards were visiting the factory by McAllister's recently."

"I supposed they would," Henry confessed, rather unconcerned. Denny spilled his water as he reached for the cream and sugar, and Henry waved a hand to clean it up. He replaced the water that had tipped onto the table, so that Denny's glass was refilled, and moved the condiments closer to his father. Denny gazed at his water skeptically; then he picked it up and sniffed it. Henry ignored him.

"Did they try to dismantle or destroy anything?" he asked instead.

"No," Donnelly sighed. "They acted like overseers for the entire operation. They're on our side, it seems. However reluctantly."

"Order from up high," Monroe said, speaking up for the first time while she adjusted her blouse. "How did you get the U.S. government in on it, anyway?"

Henry showed teeth. "I've got a few connections amidst the American government," he explained, and at their blank looks he raised a shoulder. "A man by the name of Augustus Zabini has recently taken over MCS76. He's a very rich, very well connected man who understands Wizards more than anyone else. Because he's _not_ magical, your president doesn't mind him whispering a few suggestions into his ear. Persuading him wasn't hard, as I'm sure you can imagine."

Donnelly closed his folder, staring down at it. "So it's really beginning, then," he stated, sounding tired.

Henry smiled at him. "I only need to say the word," he said.

"Jesus Christ," he cursed, picking up his coffee and draining it. "And I suppose there's no way for us to persuade you otherwise?"

Monroe glared at him. "I'm not included in your 'us'," she said. "I agree with what he's doing." She caught Henry's thankful smile and nodded back sensibly.

"You're just as insane as he is, then," Donnelly told her, rolling his eyes. "Is there anyway _I_ can talk you out of it?"

"That's unlikely," Denny spoke up, his eyes trailing the attractive waitress. Henry slapped him on the arm, and Denny attended to them again, however reluctantly. "The lad's got a fire under his ass about it," he continued, glaring at Donnelly. "If I can't convince him, you certainly can't, mate."

Donnelly gave him an unimpressed sneer. "Thank you for the words of wisdom, Brooks," he said, huffing into a quiet as Denny grinned at him spitefully.

"Maybe," Henry said slowly, "once you see the outcome of this, you won't be quite so brusque." When all he received for his positive prediction were unconvinced expressions, Henry sighed and shrugged. "It was a thought," he said.

Monroe nudged her partner with her elbow and waved a hand at Henry, ignoring Donnelly's grunt of disapproval. "There's good to come of it, I'm convinced," she told them, licking her lips. "Though I admit I don't know the extent of what we're getting into…" She stopped when Donnelly made an abrupt noise that sounded a bit like a snorting, displeased hog. "What _I'm _getting into, excuse me," she corrected herself, glancing at Donnelly with open concern. "I'll let you know that I'm scared, Brooks."

Denny blew on his hot coffee, gazing at her over the rim. "You're smart to be, lass," he muttered.

"The casualties—" Donnelly began heatedly, but Henry interrupted him quickly.

"Are necessary, I'll have you know," he said, mildly impatient with the man. "And I think you know in your heart that they are, otherwise we wouldn't be here right now. Denny and I aren't bosom buddies with bobbies, you know."

"Nice alliteration," Monroe said sardonically at the same time that Denny raised his coffee and said, "Cheers to that!"

Putting a hand over his eyes, Donnelly made that sound again, and Monroe slapped him on the back a couple of times, as if he were choking. "We're all going to hell," he announced, still looking dreadful.

Denny laughed uproariously at that. "You're already in hell, old boy, you just haven't noticed it yet," he said cheerfully.

Henry couldn't help but grin, though he lost his smile when he caught a glimpse of Monroe clutching the cross around her neck, obviously shaken.

"It'll be fine," Henry addressed them, first looking at Donnelly then meeting Monroe's worried eyes. "Just trust me," he implored as he rose.

Still chortling, they made their way, side by side, out of the diner. Donnelly turned to Monroe once they had gone.

"You know what frightens me more than the war he's going to start?" he asked his partner weakly.

Agent Monroe stared at him rather blankly until he turned away to gaze blankly into space, fiercely pondering the meeting they had just had. "I think," Donnelly sighed, turning a bit red, "I'm started to like that little fucker."

Monroe thought this riotously funny, and so he left her laughing as he headed back to the van. She smiled genuinely at the path Donnelly had taken until the waitress dropped the check in front of her. She scowled. "Damn."

.o00o.

Rashidi and Choi were already with Frank by the time Denny and Henry arrived at the house. They had come early, which was a good sign in Henry's opinion, and he took a moment to brief Denny on the two partners as they made their way up the grand staircase.

Henry was anxious to talk to his allies, but not impatient enough to let Denny run his mouth with the important, powerful men in the room. His adoptive father was clearly able to handle his own, but Henry knew Denny's temper too well. Hot-headed and stubborn, he would not keep his head if Rashidi said something untoward, as the man was quite unashamed to do. Denny knew how to proceed respectably; he only needed the reminder now and then. Thus, before they went in, as they stood outside of the entrance to Frank's study, Denny gave his word that he would act accordingly, and Henry shoved the doors open, only to find himself, startlingly, face to face with Arif Rahul.

"Mr. Brooks," the man said in a heavily accented rush, "It is a pleasure to meet you."

Henry shook off his surprise, and, taking the outstretched hand with a pleasant smile, he said, "A pleasure to me as well, Mr. Rahul."

The man returned abruptly back to the other people in the study and sat down. "We've just been talking of the plans," he said.

Henry let Denny go in ahead of him and shut the door, holding in a laugh as his father gave the back of Rahul's head a bemused glare. "Are they to your satisfaction, sir?" Henry asked when he sat down next to Denny.

Rahul seemed rather pleased at the address, sharing a smug look with Rashidi, who rolled his eyes to one side. "They are happening faster than I had thought, though I am satisfied with the pacing. You're a very prompt man, Mr. Brooks."

Henry laughed and poured a drink for himself. Noticing Frank and Rashidi's empty glasses, he filled them up while he said, "I am determined to go about it promptly." Henry gave the other members of the meeting drinks before pouring a glass of water for Rahul. The man watched his movements carefully, a surprised eyebrow slowly rising and the beginnings of a pleased smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

"What about me?" Denny questioned suddenly, giving him a surly look.

Henry turner to him and raised his eyebrows. "You have legs, don't you?" he teased, but obliged his father.

"Piker," Denny grumbled.

"Arse," Henry returned.

"Forgive me for being rude," he said as he handed Rahul his drink, who grinned rather wolfishly and nodded to him. "This is my father, Denny Brooks."

Rashidi and Choi both stood to shake his hand. "I have heard a lot about you, Mr. Brooks," Rashidi greeted with a grin.

"All good things, I hope," said Denny, turning to greet Choi.

"Wouldn't it be humorous if they were," Henry responded sardonically, and his father glared.

Rahul too set down his water and shook Denny's hand. "I see no love lost between father and son," he said, sounding amused and just a bit censorious.

Not seeming to notice Rahul's disapproving frown, Denny grasped Henry around the neck roughly, jostling him enough that his drink spilled, and Henry brushed the residue off his coat with a grimace.

"I've told them about the end of the Wizards' war," Frank spoke up for the first time. He seemed vastly more cheerful than when Henry had seen him last. "We are all of the opinion that it was a job well done, Hen," he said, toasting him briefly.

"This is true," Rashidi agreed. "And you have gotten the President to join as well. How did you do it; I would love to know, if you would tell me."

Henry grinned and sat back down, only slightly alarmed when they all followed his move. "Persuasion, Rashidi," he answered, "And necessary evils, perhaps."

Rahul seemed to think this rather funny, and his chuckles were deep and sincere. "I like him very much, Mr. McAllister," Rahul told him decidedly.

"We are all friends here," Frank said, his smile there but strained. "Call me Frank."

"And you may call me Arif," he responded in kind.

"I must tell you," Choi said to Henry unexpectedly, "It sure is something to be a part of this."

Denny raised his glass, attaching himself to his son once more, and nearly yelled, "Hear! Hear!" Having not the art to admonish him, Henry smiled and toasted as well. There were cheers all around.

"Surely you know, Lee," Henry said to Choi once the fracas had died down, "that I would hope for your contributions long after the war is over."

Lee and Rahul were surprised at that. And though Rashidi was too, he had enough composure to not show it. "I had hoped—" Choi began hesitantly, but he didn't finish.

"This is the first council," Henry told them. "More may join once we're steadfastly underway, but you are all the good seeds of this operation." He raised his glass and dipped his head. "I thank you, gentlemen," he concluded.

They followed his example, with Rahul enormously pleased and Rashidi and Choi seeming ridiculously proud. And though Denny gave him a look, he raised his glass as well.

"I hope," Rahul said as they drank, "that this war brings about just deserves. That, at the end of this battle, we will all have what we want."

They honored the words again, with glasses high and soft murmurs of agreement; then Frank nodded decisively and stood up.

"I hope that, at the end of this war," he said, meeting Henry's eyes, "there will be something of equality again, that there will be peace where peace is due, and that the consequences are good, no matter how ill our actions may be. Let us not regret."

Shouts of approval were raised, and they filled their cups once more and toasted. Henry held out his own, smiling at Choi (who was pouring the rest of the decanter into his own glass) before he turned back to Frank. "I haven't heard it put quite like that," he told Frank softly, appreciatively. "I think you may know what you want. To success," he finished.

"To victory," they honored.

"When is the first strike?" Choi asked, his face shiny and red from the drink and his joy.

Henry released a breath he didn't realize he was holding and told them what would happen next. The tomorrow that he'd planned would make things as different as night and day.

.o00o.

Cloaked in only the sheer darkness outside, Henry moved towards his target with apparent ease. The men that had guarded Mack Rudeck had dropped like flies, and Rudeck himself had fled into a maze of alleys stretched out across London. The Thames was quiet. And with the smells of the river and the last vestiges of exhaust tickling his nose, he caught sight of Rudeck heading for a widened alleyway that promised a way out into a busy street. However, because Henry knew the streets of London well, he had predicted Rudeck's folly from the start.

He grinned sinisterly in the lamplight, feeling quite unfazed despite the chase Rudeck had lead him on. Rudeck was standing at the end of the shops, his eyes wide and frightened, his back to the scraggy brick wall that had trapped him. When he saw Henry, he did not recognize him personally, but something about Henry likely seemed imposing because he immediately cowered further into the wall.

"What do you want?" Rudeck yelled, his voice traveling in an echo, "_Damn you_, what do you want?"  
"Mr. Rudeck?" Henry said pleasantly, moving forward. "I don't believe we've met. My name is Henry Brooks."

"Brooks? _Brooks_?" Rudeck sputtered, his back scraping up and down on the bricks. "The illegitimate son of _Denny Brooks_? Well, I'll be damned."

If Rudeck thought he was endearing himself to Henry, perhaps in an attempt to save his insignificant life, he was sorely mistaken.

"I am not a bastard, Mr. Rudeck, what an eccentric thing to say," he responded politely, "My parents were married, you know."

"Yes, yes. That's what I meant," Rudeck croaked. His hand had been moving gradually toward his coat pocket, and when he made an abrupt motion to grasp the gun that was supposed to be in there, Rudeck found that it was gone. He patted his coat with a desperate moan, beginning to sweat profusely. Henry watched him in silence.

"I haven't done anything to you!" Rudeck shouted, blinking away the perspiration that had dribbled into his eyes.

Henry sighed and reached into his pocket, ignoring Rudeck's flinch. He brought out a cigarette and put it to his mouth. He replaced the pack, shuffling the lighter out of his pocket in its place. The flash of fire that switched on lit up Henry's face for a moment, but it was enough for Rudeck to realize that it actually was Henry Brooks in front of him. He near sunk to his knees at that.

Henry drew the smoke away from his mouth and exhaled. "No," he finally responded. "I dare say you haven't."

"Why are you after me, then? I haven't…What do you want?" he stumbled.

"You were in contact with Rashidi Shad recently," Henry said before the man could stutter on further. "If I'm not incorrect."

"I…yes. How did you know that?"

Henry gave him a look. "He spoke of a war in the near future. A war he expressed his support for, and he wished that you would as well." He exhaled with a small hum of satisfaction. "I was lead to believe he was very cordial, in fact."

"I don't care for blacks with grudges!" Rudeck shouted at him. "He can start whatever shenanigans he wants, but I'm not going to be a part of it!" Red in the face from his fit, Rudeck shook a finger at Henry and backed further into the wall. "You're his man now, are you? Got him on a leash as well, like you do everyone else, have you? Pathetic! Truly pathetic."

Henry moved forward as he took another drag. "You're quite a bother," he said, frowning. "I'd go so far as to say you're an anchor for change. I don't like you at all."

"It's no concern of mine what you like or don't like, Brooks!" Rudeck told him, furiously wiping his brow with his sleeve. "Do you know who I am? Do you know what power I have? You'll regret this, I can tell you that."

Henry raised an eyebrow. "The 'new lord of Britain' is what you call yourself, I believe," he answered, pointing his cigarette at the man. "I have known lords, Rudeck. Real ones. I've known them mad and great, kind and cruel. You are as far from a lord as I am from a saint."

"I won't be killed! You go tell that black mate of yours that I won't be a part of it! Whoever you're working for… you tell them… You tell them I won't be put to an end!"

Henry lifted the pistol, knowing it was gleaming in the dim light of the alley like a sun. He cocked it back. "I don't work for anyone, Mack," he said. "The war is mine, and unless I'm proven wrong in this next second, you most certainly can be killed."

"How _dare_ you!" the man objected, his eyes bulging. "Do you know who I am?"

Henry felt the chill breeze of the night touch his face. "I know who you were," he said, and then he let the bullet fly. "And you should have known who I am."

The Thames was still and silent as he walked away from the body.

.o00o.

"If you're ready, McKay," he said to his friend, munching on a meat pie Mary had made for supper. John McKay sat across from him, a heavy, anxious look crossing his eyes, though he nodded after a moment of thought.

"Denny's coming back here, I take it?" John asked gruffly. At Henry's nod, he raised one shoulder. "You've got Britain back again," he said, and Henry knew it to be his way of congratulating him.

"Denny will be in charge there, yes. I've already spoken to the lesser bosses, and they were quite happy to see Rudeck gone," he informed, finishing his dinner. "All is well, it looks like."

"Yeah," John agreed, clearing his throat. "You want to use the manor as a base of operations," he surmised. "Like old times."

Henry sipped his tea, smiling. "I would have rather Denny be a better lord than Tyler was, but yes, like old times," he confirmed.

John merely grunted. "You've certainly got a lot of courage, kid," he told him.

Rising to put his dishes in the sink, John suddenly said, "Before Denny moves back in, tell him to stop calling me McKye."

Henry laughed and deposited his dishes as well. "He's Scottish, John," he argued, but not maliciously.

"It's McKay," John growled. "Not McKye."

Shaking his head, Henry suddenly remembered he had something for John. He motioned for the man to shut up and grabbed the present out of his pocket. "This is for you," he said graciously. "For being patient with me."

John held up the brown paper bag, not opening it. "Is it a Playboy model, a million dollars, and a bottle of Jack Daniels?" he asked.

"No."

"Damn," he cursed, but he opened it anyway. "This is _David Copperfield_, I already have this one," John told him.

Henry tapped the cover with his finger. "This is a first edition," he said, rather pleased with himself.

Ecstatic, John showed his gratefulness by simply sitting down and diving into the book.

Henry knew the man was happy, and he left the kitchen to let John read. He would visit Draco before he left, but as he made it up to the boy's room he wondered if there would be less obstinacy in Draco attitude now that his parents had moved to France.

Preparing himself for a battle, Henry opened the door after knocking once and found himself tackled quite roughly. He got one glimpse of Draco before they were lip-locked, and he was backed up until the door shut behind them.

It was near to the finest kiss Henry had ever received.

When they pulled away from each other, Draco stared at him closely and stated, "I don't hate you any less."

Henry rested his lips on the corner of Draco's mouth. "I understand," he sighed.

.o00o.

Diagon Alley was busy. Summer had come to England with little preamble, shoving the cool beauty of spring aside to let loose the heat of the season. Wizards and Witches went about their business, buying an array of things, trying on colorful robes and hats, or pursuing other activities, all tell-tale signs of the peaceful times they were cheerfully embracing.

Henry stood in front of Eeylops Owl Emporium, watching as a group of Wizards made their way towards The Leaky Cauldron. They tapped the bricks to the entrance, still chatting away. Only when the apparent leader of their group ran straight into the unmoved wall did they noticed it hadn't opened. The Wizard pushed against the brick, of all things, and Henry turned away to hide his smile.

When he caught sight of a goblin on the front steps of Gringotts, he nodded very slowly. It was time. The entrance to the Leaky Cauldron opened, making the angry Wizard stumble forward. At about the same time, the doors to Gringotts slammed closed as ash settled to the ground at the entrance to Diagon Alley.

Through the magical doorway, the men came in and filled the alley, standing in the hazy remains where the group of Wizards had once been. The sound of a gun cocking, of a hundred guns cocking, boomed across the market as loud as a storm. The first response was screaming followed by the sound of feet running towards exits, and then more screaming echoed the different sounds as they realized there were no exits to be had at all. The ash fell from the sky like snow.

Henry threw his cigarette out onto the road and moved further into the shadow of the building, hearing and seeing his dreams so suddenly becoming real. Dust from the destroyed remains of Diagon Alley flew up behind him as he walked, and the air was heavy with fire and smoke.

"With things that have an end, with life and earth, and this moon that leaves me dark within the door," he said to himself, laughingly.

In his hand, still and reassuring, was the pistol.


End file.
